A Fallen Candle's Flame
by europanya
Summary: A secret locked away in Bilbo's study leads Frodo into a journey of the sensual.
1. I: Letter

A Fallen Candle's Flame

by Europanya

**This story is heart-warmingly dedicated **to Fennelseed and Elderberry Wine. Without their wonderful contributions to the young Frodo and Sam genre, this story would never have been imagined.

~~~

"I should like to save the Shire, if I could--though there have been times when I thought the inhabitants too stupid and dull for wordsBut I don't feel that way now. I feel that as long as the Shire lies behind, safe and comfortable, I shall find wandering more bearable: I shall know that somewhere there is a firm foothold, even if my feet cannot stand there again."

__

--The Fellowship of the Ring: The Shadow of the Past

****

I: Letter

"Merry, dear, before you set out upon the road, may I ask a small favour of you?"

Frodo's younger cousin shot him a doubtful look as soon as he'd spoken. After spending the better part of the week sorting, distributing and reclaiming Bilbo's countless birthday mathoms from and amongst even more countless relations, Merry had more than his share of Frodo's small favours. 

"I'm tired, cousin," he said as he stood before the open door in Bag End's front hall, putting on his gloves. "And I wish to gain the East Road before sundown. If it is quicker than a flea or lighter than a toad, I might consider it."

Frodo grinned in an effort to conceal his nervousness. He'd chosen to make light of the favour to Merry, asking it of him only as he fastened his brass coat buttons to depart for a leisurely journey back to Buckland. Merry's driver sat in wait in the Row with an overloaded cart, ponies stomping the earth. Frodo knew the favour in question carried a good deal of weight, indeed.

"No heavier than a fold of paper and a drop of wax," Frodo said, truthfully, producing a carefully sealed letter.

Merry took it from him and flipped the envelope in his gloved hand to read the address. "You can't take it down yourself? It's not as if it's a difficult trip."

"I know, I know," Frodo said, growing flustered. "But it's late and I would rather not don my coat. It's not out of your way, certainly."

Merry held the envelope against his waistcoat, as if to protect it from Frodo's testiness. "No reason to get out of sorts, cousin. I'll be happy to deliver it; mind you that the dame of the house doesn't natter at me for some hours over the virtues of fennelseed liniment or some odd relative's case of the ague."

Merry was trying to get the better of him, that Frodo knew, and he took a good calm breath. This would go on considerably longer if he let on how important this delivery was to him. A long uncomfortable conversation would follow that would certainly result in his cousin staying over another fortnight, and that would render the contents of the letter all but meaningless. "Just slip it into the front box by the right hand side of the door and that will do, Merry. See if I inquire with you again over such trivial matters, or hop to fetch you a match when you've pipe in hand and feet upon a stool."

Merry laughed and tucked the letter into the inside pocket of his jacket and gave it a pat. "No trouble, just my odd way of delaying my departure another minute. I shall miss you, Frodo, and will worry over you getting on out here all alone now."

"I'm not alone, Merry. There's Sam and the Gaffer, after all. It's not as if I occupy the Hill entire." _That was well put,_ he told himself. _Nary a stutter or slip of tongue._

"No," Merry agreed. "But you've also never been good about looking after yourself for very long. I want you to be well, cousin."

"I will be well, Merry. In a very short time, I hope."

Merry grinned and held out his arms to grasp Frodo in a strong thumping hug. Frodo kissed his cousin and saw him out the green door and down to the garden gate. 

"Take care, Merry," he called as the driver snapped the ponies to attention. "And don't forget to pause for that delivery!"

"I won't, cousin! Fare you well! Goodnight!"

Frodo waved and watched until the cart dipped over the rise of the road and vanished from view. He listened, but knew the sounds of the ponies' hooves would have clacked too far from his hearing by the time they drew near to their first stop. Merry would keep his word, so Frodo turned and walked back up to the door of Bag End, his home under the Hill; and he, its new master.

***

"Careful how you carry that sconce, lad," Bilbo used to say on the many nights Frodo lit a candle and pierced its bottom upon the stay of a curved hand-sconce he enjoyed taking into Bilbo's study after sundown. "There's no fate more uncertain than that of a falling candle--whether it should go out in the fall or hold its spark to light a greater blaze for some lad's foolishness and this old hobbit's broken heart. Mind the parchments, lad. Many shan't ever be replaced."

Bilbo's moral metaphors still spoke to him as Frodo carried a taper about the front rooms, lighting candles as he went. The words were as clear as if the old hobbit were sitting in the parlour with him, shaking his head at Frodo's youthful curiosity for all things dusty and learned. Frodo had come to know many things in his years under Bilbo's patient tutelage and care. The tutor might have moved on, but the jewels of his wisdom stayed behind. Frodo had long known this time of change was coming, and he had looked to it with both sorrow and hope. 

Frodo took his chair by the fire and let the quiet of the coming evening soothe him. A light wind had picked up, dancing with the old oak, its branches and deep roots grumbling around Bag End as the wind whisked its way down the trunk to the chimney to fluster the hearth flames. Frodo knew it was much too soon to be listening for creaking at the gate or a rap upon the door, but his ears remained tuned to it for as long as he could remain awake. On this long night, in which the letter had finally left his company, he knew he would not find sleep. So instead, he traced back over the passing months, weeks and days of three long years, to recall the precise moment in time that had tripped fate's hand and led him to this lonely night. And that event had been none other than a dropped candle.


	2. II: Green

II: Green

Three years before, on another restless night, Frodo had slipped out of bed and gone into Bilbo's study with a lit sconce in hand, tiptoeing up the smials long after midnight in search of something new to read. He'd worked his way through nearly every bound tome in the Westron tongue and was already two-thirds of the way, by his reckoning, through the Elvish. The Sindarin went more slowly and required a stack of loose sheets of parchment and freshly sharpened pencils kept near his bedside for working through the more obscure passages. How he lived then for the delight in deciphering the mysterious lyrical phrases into the sturdy phonetics of his own language, and inviting those fresh ideas and images into his imagination.

Frodo could recall how he balanced his toes upon the base shelf to search the top levels for a new title, holding the lit sconce high over his head and as close to the bindings as he dared. Much of the higher shelves had yet to unlock their secrets to him. He was whispering the mysterious titles to himself when the weakened candle gave in, spilling a trail of hot wax over its lip and onto Frodo's wrist, causing him to unwittingly drop the sconce. 

Frodo yelped and dove to the floor to smother any sudden flames, sure to spring up in the dry cluttered study, with his own flesh, if necessary. His night-shirt was spared for the candle had blown itself out in the fall, but Frodo's tumble left him smarting at the knees with his fingers coated in fresh sticking wax. It wouldn't do for Bilbo to wake and come find him within the evidence of such a close call, so Frodo felt about in the dark, scraping the melted wax into a warm ball in his hand. It was in doing so that his fingers came upon something rather odd about the base of the bookshelf. In the dark it felt as if he'd damaged the side of the old heirloom. A panel had come loose and was lying at an angle now to the floor. 

Biting back a curse, Frodo felt his way about the edge of the protruding board and found that it was hinged. Curious, he slid his hand into the dark space beneath. Tapping about at arm's length, he discovered a metal box, smooth and cold to his fingertips. He drew it out carefully and pulled it into his lap. He felt for the lid and seams and could tell that the box was locked fast by a keyhole in the front. This amazed Frodo. Bilbo had many trunks and boxes of this and that, but he had never hidden any of them from Frodo, nor had he ever bothered to lock them--not even the ones with gold or gems settled into the bottom.

Frodo set the box upon the floor and slipped off for a fresh candle. After pausing at Bilbo's bedroom door to assure himself the hobbit within slept soundly, he returned to the study to have a better look at this strange treasure. 

Closing the study door behind him, Frodo picked up the box and set it upon Bilbo's writing desk. It was a foot long and five inches high, made of finely hammered silver with leaf motifs at the corners and ornamenting the lock. Elvish craftsmanship to be sure, but long hidden and tarnished with age. Frodo lifted the box and gave it a little shake. It felt as if it contained a few items, flat and shaped closely to the dimensions of the box. He supposed he could just ask Bilbo about it at breakfast, but what if it was indeed something his uncle had intended to keep secret and retrieved it from him to only hide it in a better place never to be found again?

The lock looked simple enough, so Frodo sifted quietly through the desk's many drawers for Bilbo's brass lock picks. Having been a burglar in his distant past, Frodo's uncle had taught him, among more reputable skills, the fine art of lock picking; though occasion rarely called for it around Bag End save when the privy door lock jammed on cold nights. 

The lock was fragile, and Frodo took care not to mar its delicate mechanism as he coaxed it to release. The lid popped open a fraction and Frodo lifted it to reveal three translation books in three colours: green, red and blue. The covers bore no title. The leather bindings were tooled in a fine floral pattern and nothing more. He opened the green book and found it had been marked on the first page by the Elvish rune for "one." The pages were filled with Elvish Tengwar on the left-hand side, and common runes on the right, all perfectly lettered in Bilbo's familiar hand. The red and blue books boasted more of the same with the runes for "two" and "three" upon their title pages, respectively.

This was very odd to Frodo and he felt the exciting prickle of curiosity. Why would Bilbo go to such great lengths to conceal a translation? And why the lack of title? Frodo knew the only way to unlock the secrets of these books would be to sneak off and read them one by one. So he took up the green book and put the other two back, closed the box and latch, and slipped the whole thing back under the bookshelf, lowering the fake panel. He tucked the translation book under his nightshirt, took up his candle and headed back to bed.

***

Frodo slipped the bolt closed on his door and curled up in his bed against the pillows for a little late-night reading. The story revealed to him through Bilbo's translation was a good one. It was an ancient tale of the divided northern region of Doriath, held by the elf-kings of old during the First Age. This tale in particular followed the lives of two princes, Angaroch and Galaelin. Angaroch was master of his own lands handed down to him from his father, the elf-king of Neldoreth, whereas Galaelin was a younger prince from Brethil, yet to come into his own. The two were swordsmen of great renown and had spent many of their younger years engaged in challenges with the fierce immortal warriors within their lands. Angaroch soon came to hear of the younger prince's fame and sought him out for a challenge, proclaiming that any who could match him in battle would succeed the lordship of his lands. They were about to begin their first tournament within the thick groves of the Neldoreth forest when Frodo fell fast asleep and the results of the encounter would have to wait for another evening.

Frodo woke the next morning to Bilbo knocking upon his locked door. Frodo opened his eyes, startled to find the green translation book still grasped in his hand upon the pillow. He'd fallen asleep against it and his cheek was embossed with a portion of the floral trim. He hopped out of bed and stashed the book far back in his wardrobe, rubbing his cheek furiously as he went to answer the rapping door.

"Gracious me, Frodo. Did Gandalf come by earlier this week and turn you into an owl?"

Frodo peered at his uncle through the small opening he'd made between the door and jamb. "Why do you say that?"

"Because, my dear lad, you sit up with your eyeballs propped open in some book half the night and sleep like the dead right through second breakfast, which is getting cold. Up and out of there at once before you begin to hunt mice and squirrels!"

If Bilbo had noticed any stray wax drippings about his things in the study or heard any of his creeping about in the night, he gave no indication and served Frodo up several thick griddle cakes with plenty of fresh whipped cream and elderberries. Frodo figured with the silver box as tarnished as it was, it had possibly been a few decades since Bilbo had even thought about the books and had perhaps even forgotten that he'd put them there. For all accounts, the books had yet to present anything unusual that would require such storage. But Frodo knew he had many pages to go and looked forward to sundown when he might sneak off to bed early for a second read.

***

The evenings passed in candle-lit wonder, and after the third night, Frodo had finished nearly all of the green book. The princes had fought and neither had emerged the victor, so Angaroch decided that he and Galaelin should rule his lands together and they did, every day riding out in the morning to keep their lands safe from the threat of various evil beasts that slunk upon the ground or flew through the air. Their friendship was fast and true until the day Angaroch was promised to marry Nenárien, an elf-maiden of great beauty who could sing like a nightingale. She came to live with the princes in their keep upon the shores of the river Mindeb. But a cruel trick of fate occurred; both princes fell in love with her and Galaelin became withdrawn from his friend and would no longer ride out with him, staying behind to wander about the castle. One day, when Angaroch returned early from his tour, he found his fair Nenárien wrapped in Galaelin's embrace, their lips together in a kiss. Angaroch flew into a rage and swore revenge, so the two warriors vowed to fight one another to the very death, the victor proving his true love for the elf-maiden and rightful lordship of the lands. 

Their battle was long and bloody and involved many weapons and felling of trees and crumbling of walls. Each fought the other until the sun had set and risen on the following day. When the quaking hills had quieted of their arms, Nenárien went in search of her champions. She had expected to find them both dead upon each other's swords, but instead found them clasped together in an embrace and surrounded by light. 

At first, this seemed reasonable enough to Frodo, but something about the wording that came soon after 'embrace' confounded him. The word itself in Elvish was one he'd never seen before and he grabbed a sheet of paper next to him and scribbled it down. The translated Westron word was also unknown to him and seemingly, a difficult one for Bilbo to define himself. It appeared as if he'd written first one word, then rubbed it out and inserted a new one, one Frodo had never seen before: frottage. He had no idea what that meant exactly, but it seemed to upset the elf-maiden who ran crying from the grove. It was here that Bilbo had chosen to end the green book. 

Dawn was not far off and Frodo knew if he slipped into the study now, he'd be certain to wake Bilbo, but the word troubled him like a strange noise one might hear behind oneself while walking alone in the woods. Lying in bed pondering the issue only made the dawn seem further off, so he took up a candle, hid the book, tore off his scrap of paper and headed back to the study to find Bilbo's _Words and Their Meanings in the Elvish. _

He hoisted the heavy tome off its shelf and opened it upon the floor, flipping through the pages to find the Elvish word Bilbo had translated as 'frottage.' It was not listed in the book, and neither was its Westron counterpart. This was very odd, indeed. Frodo found it troubled his mind so thoroughly he could not imagine returning to bed to sleep the remaining hours away and decided he would start tea and ask Bilbo about the word once he woke.

***

Bilbo gave Frodo an odd look when he found him in the kitchen a few hours later, sipping his tea and looking a bit peckish from lack of sleep. Frodo greeted him and asked if he could help him prepare breakfast. Bilbo eyed him sceptically, but handed Frodo a bowl of mushrooms and sage to chop just the same. They ate and were clearing their finished plates when Frodo found he could wait no longer--he had to know the meaning of the word, but chose to ask Bilbo to define the common version. 

"Uncle, I've come upon a word I cannot derive the meaning of."

"What is it, lad? Is it Elvish?"

"I don't know. In common tongue it's 'frottage.' What does it mean?"

Bilbo frowned as he thought it over. "That is an odd word. And you've got the pronunciation wrong; you want the long 'o' and soft 'g.' Wherever did you read it?"

Frodo felt guilt run through him, but decided it was worth getting found out if he could but understand the meaning of the end of the book a little better. "I don't recall exactly; it was some time ago," he said. "I thought just now of it and wondered if you knew."

"Well," Bilbo said, dunking their mugs into the washbasin and beginning to scrub them out, "it's the name of a form of artwork popular some years ago among the dwarves--a type of charcoal rubbing. That's the root of the word, frot; it means to rub one surface against another."

Frodo sat and chewed on a mint leaf thoughtfully. What was it about Dwarvish art that could relate to the scene in the book? He wanted to ask Bilbo specifically about the translations but something told him he'd better hold his tongue if he wanted to read the rest of them, so he let the meaning of the word linger about the back of his head for the next several hours. 

It wasn't until he was sitting waist-high in suds in his bath, scrubbing his back with the long brush that something occurred to Frodo. 'Embrace' was the common word Bilbo had chosen for the description of Galaelin and Nenárien's kiss. It was also the first word he used to describe what the princess saw in the glade, followed by the word 'frottage.' "To rub one surface against another" Frodo froze, turned bright red and dropped both the soap and the scrub brush into the water with a clunk. The princes were not merely comforting one another in that embrace, but could it bethey were _pleasuring_ each other as well? 

Frodo was certain of it, and gripped the sides of the tub as if they might slide out from under him. He was all at once desperate to get a look at the next book, as well as mortified that he had unwittingly asked Bilbo to define the term for him. _Impossible, he said it was a form of art. He wasn't diverting that definition for my sake, was he? _Or was Bilbo in his bedroom right now, peeking under the mattress and digging through his chests, searching for the evidence? _This_ was why Bilbo had chosen to hide the books. It had to be! And there were two more of them. Two!

***

Bilbo had not gone through his things, nor found the green book hidden behind his shirts when Frodo snuck back into his room, hair still damp and a towel hastily wrapped around his waist. He could hear Bilbo outside in the garden chatting with the Gaffer and young Sam as he threw on a shirt and produced the book from its hiding place to give the last section another go--now with a new eye for hidden meanings. 

In several places leading up to the battle, Frodo now recognised the subtle hint of romantic tension building between the two princes and he flushed all over at each unveiling. By the time he reread the grove scene he found himself quite distracted and had to make some effort to put the book aside, heart pounding and every sense heightened. Clearly, the story was going to continue. Was there going to be more? More terms and descriptions he would have to think twice to uncover the true meaning of? 

Frodo sat at the end of his bed, a hand to his bared chest. Half-dressed still from his bath, he could feel every inch of his shirt clinging to his freshly cleaned skin, while the voice of his uncle and the elder Gamgee drifted in through the open window. He took a deep breath to try and calm himself, all the while regretting he'd left the bath so soon given the state he was now in. Whatever the case, be it the impatient appetite of his curiosity or his body, the satisfaction would have to wait for nightfall.

***

The lock would not give. Frodo kneeled upon the floor of the study, the silver box set upon the chair, a candle at his elbow and the lock picks plunged into the tiny hole. He worked them with a rushed and unsteady hand as he tried to recall anything he might have read in the sequels when he'd first casually flipped through them, but nothing in particular came to mind. The lock made an odd sound and Frodo hoped he'd finally succeeded in setting it free. He tried the lid, but the silver remained clamped shut. He sat back on his heels with a sigh, wiping the sweat from his forehead. _This is ridiculous; who am I? Some impulsive tweenager barely out of his teens? Patience, Frodo._

He stared at the candlelight playing on the carved ceiling some moments until he felt calm enough to try it again. Slowly, he reinserted the picks. Remembering everything Bilbo told him about letting the lock speak to you came back to him, and with a slow steady twist and push, the box sprung open. Frodo snatched up the red book and began to flip through it eagerly. It seemed the elf-maiden was quite out of the picture now and the princes were going to be spending a good deal more time in the hidden grove of Neldoreth without her. 

Frodo smiled secretly at his find and tucked it under his arm possessively. Then he set the green book back in the box and picked up the blue one. He had thought he would raid the box for its entire contents, but after rereading the end of the green book five or six times that afternoon, he decided he was finished with it and should probably leave it behind just in case Bilbo got wise to him and decided to give the box a shake. Frodo wanted to take his time now with these books and thought a better effort toward concealment would be prudent. So he left the blue book unopened and searched about until he found a blank translation book of nearly the same shape and size as the missing red book and locked it under the silver lid with the other two. Then he carefully replaced the box under the panel, reset it, and headed off to bed.

***

His bedroom door bolted and plenty of fresh candles on hand, Frodo began to read the red book, slowly. The wording was moving and beautiful in itself and Frodo was amazed that such creative effort had been put into a work containing such questionable subject matter. This was not some base limerick sung by a wash-maiden, but a conscientious literary work, well-phrased with sophisticated meter and rhyme. 

He placed a blank sheet of paper against the right hand page and read the Sindarin through first, working the meanings around his own mind before unveiling Bilbo's rather impressive translation. It was obvious to Frodo his uncle had spent some time with this work--possibly sketching out several versions on parchment before entering the final copy into the book alongside his careful penmanship of the original. Frodo wondered where the original was kept. Likely, it resided in Rivendell, rolled in a dusty scroll. Or did the elves also feel the need to lock this particular lay up in boxes, too? How did Bilbo come upon it in the first place? Was the story true? Most likely it was. Elves rarely spent their attention on matters of fancy, having thousands of years of memory to work with. These were all questions he intended to ask his uncle someday, but not until he got a good long look at the contents, first.

The story unravelled before him, page-by-page, vast and symbolic, leaden with double meanings and grand romantic gestures of fidelity, courage, strength and honour. It was clear these two princes had found deep passionate love with one another and weren't about to make any apologies for it. In fact, the plotting of the story failed to imbue their love affair with even the slightest hint of morality. It was the purpose of the work to show how such a bond might serve in the greater keeping of a kingdom where all looked upon the fair warriors, clasped arm and arm, and cheered, knowing this great love was what kept their dwellings safe and free of evil. 

This was a true revelation to Frodo, who having been brought up a Bucklander, had never even heard whisper of such tolerated adult couplings. Every lad was expected to grow up properly and marry a lass of his family's approval, and only after much negotiation over dowry. Frodo had been relieved to be relocated to Hobbiton where the rules of marriage were not so strict, and long before his Brandybuck cousins could arrange such a dreary fate for him. It did not surprise Frodo so much that elves would think differently, being immune to many of the necessities that plagued mortals and their societies. But still, here was a coupling that was clearly revered and honoured by the peoples of the land in which they dwelt and embraced.

And, oh, how the descriptions of those embraces had stolen Frodo's heart and breath entirely. They were bold matings, given to much heaving passion and lusty proclamations. They took some time to absorb, if that was the right word, for many of the terms did not translate very well and Bilbo had chosen various art, literary, and cooking terms to take the place of whatever mysterious activity was going on under the leaves or sheets while thunderclaps and torrents of rain or swelling seas accompanied the pair. Frodo had chewed his nails down to little nubs by the time he'd finished the first section, a whole list of strange words written on the sheet next to him to go look up once he got himself put back together properly. 

And there was that, too. Over the many evenings he spent with the red translation, Frodo became quite skilled at holding the book and turning the pages with his left hand while the other was occupied elsewhere under his sheets--a teasing slow pace he fought to contain for as long as possible until overwrought with urgency, he'd place the book upon the side table and turn into the pillows, deep in fantasy, rewarded by the intensity of a well orchestrated climax. It was a delicious indulgence, that fed the flames of his sensuality as if the Elvish author had read his very mind and plundered it for buried dreams and wishes. The whole premise that two strong beautiful males might find this kind of passion with one another freely was beyond his farthest hopes and he carried that ideal with him from his rumpled bedclothes into the daybreak, where all he could think about was what he'd read the night before and how he hoped the story would never end for all the private joy it brought him.

Often, he would slip into Bilbo's study during the long afternoons and sit down with _Words and Their Meanings_ and try to decipher as many of the euphemisms as he could. As he came to blushingly discover, lads were quite capable of pleasing one another in a wide variety of fashions and methods, some Frodo had never even considered, let alone experienced, before.

Now that Frodo had been awoken to pleasure, he could not again shut the door upon it and the very thoughts of kisses and shared loving between males haunted his every thought. Days would pass when he could concentrate on little else, his head a muffled cloud of daydreams. Bilbo thought he had perhaps contracted some sickness and made him drink a succession of bitter concoctions and wear a ridiculous herbal wrap upon his brow for the better part of a week. Needless to say, his remedies were a few feet high of the mark.

Frodo, of course, had long known of the manner in which fauntlings were begot--what educated lad did not? But that knowledge had never translated itself to him in a visceral fashion. To him, the coupling between a master and mistress was a function of family and property and not something a body could crave with seemingly endless appetite. Not until he learned that lads might share these activities among themselves, too, simply because it pleased them. Or more importantly, that those activities would be honoured and celebrated in fine works of Sindarin. 

What Frodo knew from his upbringing in Buckland, was that to speak of natural desires in plain words was abhorrent and punishable, as was the curious discovery of one's own body; which after a sharp knock on the knuckles by his nanny's cane, Frodo soon learned to hide any evidence of. 

There were times he could recall, long ago, when he would sit in the high grass behind the Brandy Hall playing field and watch the older lads at their games and competitions. He'd often become thick with the excitement their sweat-slick skin and heroic exertions provided him. The unspoken need would rise and he would be ashamed, yet helpless, to resist its erotic pull. It was his secret, his hidden vice, that no one would ever come to know. It was some years before Frodo could master himself to keep his eyes from peering and his knees from falling into the long sweet-smelling grasses in defeat.

He gained mastery as he gained years and fed those heady forbidden yearnings into his lusty pursuit of parchments and books, adapting a solitary existence, well sheltered from any vile or unsavoury influence. He kept to his elders and the younger ones. He found comfort in chaste hugs and kisses and left the sneaking groping habits of his earlier days lost beyond the gaming fields long before he ever came to be the future heir of Bag End.

***

As much as Frodo had wished to prolong his enjoyment of the translation, the red book eventually came to an end with yet another great battle, this one uncovering the existence of an evil sorcerer within the far reaches of the princes' realm--the apparent source for all the fell creatures they spent most of their days slaying when they were not otherwise indisposed. The princes grasped one another fiercely and swore fealty that they should take arms together to defeat the evil wizard, but not before casting themselves upon the bed in a heaving scramble of thrusting tongues and hips--after the inevitable conclusion of which, the red book came to its close.

The month wore on, and after many repeated readings of certain ribbon-marked passages of the red book, Frodo finally gave in to the temptation to seek out the blue book. He took the midnight walk to Bilbo's study with a mixed heart because it would mean, sooner than later, this experience would draw to a close and there would be no new encounter or professions of boundless love to stir his heart and warm his blood. He was quite certain this was the only translation of its ilk in Bilbo's study, having tapped all the remaining bookshelves for false panels in the weeks prior.

Frodo got to his knees upon the study floor and released the hinges, reached in and drew the box into his lap. It was unlocked; the silver ornamented rim opened just a fraction. His heart began to pound and he looked over his shoulder at the door. It was securely shut. Frodo looked back to the box. He was certain beyond all doubt he had pressed the lid until it clicked and could not be reopened without the aid of the brass picks. 

Frodo opened the lid and looked in. The green book lay on top as he had left it, followed by the blank book, and lastly the blue book. If memory served, the blue book's ribbon marker was now in a different spot. He didn't know what to make of it. Truthfully, he had hardly glanced at the blue book, wanting to keep it for later, but he was quite certain the ribbon had last lain in the front binding. 

Frodo opened the blue book in his nervous hands. The ribboned page hosted the end of a passage, some six lines long, that made little sense to him: something about Kings and laws and memory. Was Bilbo leaving him a message? _Perhaps_ _I've not been as secretive as I thought._ It had to be Bilbo, and by leaving the box open, his uncle was granting him tacit permission to continue his read. Relieved somewhat that Bilbo had chosen to keep the subject quietly within the pages of the work, Frodo took up all three translations and left only the empty box under the bookcase as he carried them back to his bedroom.

***

Frodo began the blue book that same night. It was not like the others; the tone was dark and drear, the wordings sombre and less melodious than the heroic writings of the green and the passionate phrasings of the red. In the blue book the two princes left their castle and set upon a long arduous quest to Himlad to defeat the sorcerer. They fought many foul beasts and endured many hardships of storms and fires in the wilderness. As the evening grew, Frodo found himself flipping ahead, searching for what he had come to expect quite frequently, and without much provocation, in the red book, but soon realised this was not that same type of story. Still, as he read on, he found a deeper love between the princes coming to light--one of protection, loyalty and sacrifice--of the strength of having two hearts bound to a task.

The evenings passed and Frodo began to absorb this notion, soon forgetting his disappointment in the blue book's near lack of sordid events, and fell in love with the care and devotion the princes exhibited towards one another. Frodo read how the princes had come through the vast wilderness and plains to the tall black tower of the sorcerer and how they fought him and his evil minions, nearly to the death. It was then, when all the enemy's servants were vanquished and the princes thought they might rest in one another's bloodied arms, that the dark wizard sprang his trap and they were captured by foul magic and chained within his dungeon. 

The reading of their dungeon captivity was hard to bear. Starved, whipped and beaten, Galaelin fell into a swoon from which Angaroch could not wake him, yet his tears fell upon him night after lightless day. Finally, feeling he had nothing to fear, the sorcerer appeared to finish them off, the two mightiest warriors Doriath had ever known. Yet still, Angaroch would not give in and he rose and broke his chains in a fury of grief for his fallen love and smote the sorcerer down with his heavy bonds, trapping him. Then he took up the sorcerer's black sword and in one strike, severed his foul head. The force of the blow was his own bane and Angaroch fell dead upon his headless enemy. Galaelin revived, and finding his lover slain thus, took up the sword and fell upon it, forsaking his immortality so he might join his lover in death.

Frodo had lain the finished book upon his chest and let the tears run across his cheeks for some time, not just for the fallen lovers and the sublime conclusion of the books, but for himself. He wept because he had never known such a love in all his thirty years, and had little hope he ever would, certainly never among his own kind.


	3. III: Red

III: RED

Frodo hadn't meant to spy upon their gardener's son. Spying was a habit he had properly given up as well as his nightly foray into the erotic world of the translations. He'd read them over and over throughout the spring until the intensity of the story had ebbed with familiarity. With the return of summer's long warm days, Frodo had assumed his former pastimes. He left his bedroom behind for the splendour of the countryside, reconnecting to his more accustomed loves and habits, and thought himself content. But deep down, he could not deny the sense of loss and hopeless loneliness the books had left in their wake, a wound that would remain open and aching for what he imagined would be a very long time. 

Therefore, the spying occasion came to him quite by happenstance, as he took a detour home through the marshy upper tributaries that led to the Bywater pool. It was Highday and he knew the farming lads often crossed this way to fish in the small shallow pools and hoped he might come upon some of them for a friendly chat and to soak his road-sore feet in the cool waters.

As it happened that afternoon, there were bathers. It was nothing that Frodo hadn't come upon before, although he always kept his own bathing habits closed within Bag End's wide metal tubs. In his childhood, Buckland public bathing was performed while wearing appropriate garments, but in the heart of the Shire, young lads and lasses splashed about in the streams and pools naked as birth. It was all a part of country life for hobbits who saw no sense in dressing down only to redress in something that was going to become wet anyway. 

As Frodo came through the high brush, he could hear the voices of several lads--some familiar, some not. He ducked down as he drew close to see if he could surprise a few into sputtering a mouthful of pond water at a well-tossed skipping stone come from an unseen source. As he peered through the reeds, Frodo recognised the eldest Cotton lad, Tom, and one of the many Chubb cousins splashing and wrestling about in the shallows. The next head that popped up was Finn Bolger, and the last, to his amusement and delight, was Sam, throwing Finn off his back and wading to shore with a hearty grumble. Frodo could laugh to himself and enjoy this merry scene now, but just twelve years ago the sight of such rustic impudicity had come to him as quite a shock. 

Having grown up accustomed to Buckland's upper-class propriety, Frodo had found the move to Hobbiton somewhat difficult. The people of the humbler towns of the Shire had seemed silly and crude to him at first. The smials with their plain green and yellow trim, the children with their dirty knees and the dogs and pigs that roamed freely in and out of most households, were strange sights to his eyes. Even the accent was different. Folk in Hobbiton spoke in a lumbering, clipped tongue that he'd found difficult to understand at times, and the near inclusive lack of lettering among the adults was inexcusable to a lad who had begun his studies at the tender age of five. Oh, the people were friendly enough, but it was uncomfortable for him to see Bilbo clap their backs in greeting and call even the lowliest cowherd 'Master Greenbrook,' or the portly milkmaid 'Mistress Pansy,' almost as if in mockery of his own station. 

Frodo's heart had lifted, though, once Bilbo brought him into Bag End, suitcase in hand. Their home under the Hill was grand and filled with warmth and light he'd not known in Brandy Hall. But more welcoming than the smial was Bilbo, who without anyone else to look after, would finally give Frodo the guidance and attention he'd sorely needed since his parents died. Frodo missed his cousins; especially Merry who had been quite young when he moved and Frodo worried would grow up to forget him. But that was not the case and once Merry was old enough to travel on his own, he'd come up to Hobbiton for visits and Bilbo would always take Frodo back to Buckland for holidays and weddings. There was Freddy, too, who had become his good friend, and although he had come to expect less from the neighbours, Frodo knew his life was greatly improved by the change.

The smial was bereft of servants, so Frodo soon became accustomed to sweeping his own floor and turning down his own bed sheets. Bilbo only kept one servant and he was many times more a friend to him than a hired hand. Hamfast Gamgee was a stodgy old fellow who knew his place and would not allow Bilbo to pay him more than his day's worth of keeping the property in turnips and morning glories. 

For with Bag End also came the garden, and within that garden was Sam, a sunny little lad who scrambled about after his dad, stirring up dust with trowels and picks too big for his hands. Frodo was fond of children, having watched so many of his younger cousins growing up, and Sam reminded him of some of them. Tow-headed and kind, Sam was an unusually bright child who loved to sneak into Bag End when his father was busy in the garden to see if he could ask Frodo or Bilbo to read him a fantastic tale of elves. Frodo found his budding curiosity of the larger world adorable and could hardly resist the sweet smile and bright brown eyes that would sit upon the rug, scratching his toes, asking questions and gasping in wonder for the very things the rest of the Shire couldn't give scruff about. Sam had an old soul and Frodo had found a friend where he'd least expected it, in the heart of a nine-year-old child. 

The world of elves and their writings had been the cornerstone of their growing friendship. It led to Sam learning to read himself under Bilbo's patient tutoring and Frodo's private delight that he might finally have somebody to share a decent conversation with outside of his guardian and distant cousins. Sam and he would speak of books and look at maps of places they'd like to one day visit in far-off lands; maybe even as far as Rivendell where Bilbo had spent so much time and had brought so many books and scrolls back with him. Together they would pour over the Elvish works in awe at the beauty of the language and the gilded colourful bindings. As fate would have it, it was young Sam who grew to bridge the lonely gap for Frodo between the society of Buckland and the humble comfort of Hobbiton, allowing him to feel as if he had a real family again.

It was also Sam who had unwittingly aided Frodo in re-entering the mundane world of reality after his plunge into the translations. Frodo had been sitting in the study pouring over _Words and Their Meanings_ when a voice caught him quite off-guard.

"Mr. Frodo?" 

Frodo near jumped out of his skin at the sound of Sam's voice. He dropped the paper he'd been holding over the long definitions and to his dismay watched Sam bend to retrieve it. But the young Gamgee was well trained in courtesy and did not look upon its contents as he handed the slip of parchment back to Frodo.

"Sorry to trouble you in your studies, sir, but Mr. Bilbo asked me to come fetch you out. He said something about you catching squirrels before too long?"

Frodo covered his mouth and snorted into his palm. Sam didn't quite get the joke, but he smiled pleasantly. Sam was wearing a new set of work clothes that day, tailored by his mum. The cut of the shirt and weskit were well suited to Sam's ever-growing frame. He'd reached his full height that year and was now beginning to grow outwards, just the slightest hint of healthy belly filling in about his waist. 

"How old are you now, Sam? Eighteen?" he asked.

"Aye, sir. Just last April. I made you that little carving for my birthday, you remember?"

"Ah, yes! Lovely work, Sam. It's hanging by my window if you didn't notice."

Sam beamed at this and looked around in the dusty light of the study with curious eyes. It had been half a year now since Sam had taken on his full apprenticeship and had stopped coming for reading lessons. Having learned his letters well, he only entered the study when Bilbo offered him a new book to take home and read at his leisure. Now that Sam had taken up at his father's side in the garden, those leisure hours had become short indeed, and the time he spent within Bag End, rather than without, had grown slim. Watching Sam in the study that day, admiring its contents with the same reverence as he himself often did, made Frodo realise how very much he'd been missing his close company. Frodo wondered if he couldn't change that.

"As a lad of eighteen, now, how do you spend your afternoons, since Bilbo seems so disagreeable with mine?"

"In the garden, sir, or about the household. My mum's teaching me to cook now, don't you know. She's grown tired of bending over the flames and thought a bit of a lad's touch might bring some new life to the supper table. I've been doing my best to please her and Dad."

Frodo got down off his chair and brushed the study dust off his trousers. "You do them proud, Sam," he said, coming over to give his friend's shoulder a squeeze. "Help me get this awful heavy thing back up on the proper shelf and I'll come on out for a bit of sun."

Sam bent and took up the book before Frodo could help him with it, slipping it back up on the shelf with ease. _My, the lad is getting strong_. _Not a child at all anymore. _Sam stood back from the shelf, his eyes gazing admiringly at the many rows of bindings. Sam was a most unusual hobbit, indeed, to have such a love for the written word. It was a rare trait that should not be allowed to atrophy in the life of a common gardener.

"Sam," Frodo asked, "do you think your mum could spare you if Bilbo and I had you over one night a week for reading discussion? I know he sends you off with books now and again. You could read them at home and come back to us when you've finished. It would be lovely to chat with you about them from time to time."

Sam turned about and smiled exuberantly. "Aye, Mr. Frodo! I'd like that a great deal. I'll ask her right away."

"It would be wonderful to have you about again. I miss our talks. Now let's see if we can catch ourselves some squirrels," he said, bending playfully to Sam's ear, as he steered his young friend out the study and toward the garden door.

So now, on Mersday eves, he and Sam and Bilbo would sit around the fire and talk late into the night about the merits of their favourite books, together. Sam was quite the proper servant now and addressed Frodo according to his status--no more skittering about the smial crying, 'Frodo! Frodo! Look what I've found in the garden!' Sam held doors and gates open for him, and took care of his coat when opportunity allowed. Sam was not in their official employ as his father was, but as apprentice he would now conduct himself as if he was. It was an odd adjustment for Frodo who could well remember the reticent lads who used to wait upon him in Brandy Hall. Never before had Frodo become close to a servant or had a friend become one before his eyes. 

For the reading sessions, Frodo made it plain that Sam would sit among them as their guest and not hesitate to speak his mind and take tea with them and not serve it as he often offered. It was a pleasure to know Sam as a grown lad and to continue to uncover how his mind worked. The discussions they shared over the values presented in their readings allowed Frodo a rare glimpse into the creative mind of a hard-working hobbit--part common-sense philosopher, part dreaming wanderer--a most delightful combination that never ceased to surprise him.

But for all of their intellectual intimacy, until this day, Frodo had not yet had the opportunity to gain his fill of the whole of Sam in his new body, muscled and ropy with vigour and youth. His golden skin and stout form had grown very pleasing to behold, indeed, as Frodo watched the young hobbit bend to retrieve his bathing towel. Sam, simply put, was handsome in every way. Who could not help to notice? Surely there was no harm in this, Frodo figured, as he settled down in the reeds for a good long look. He and Sam had every respect for one another and he was merely admiring the lad as he would a fine painting or sturdy flowering oak. Or so he told himself.

Tom and the Chubb and Finn continued their play in the water while Sam lay upon his side faced away from Frodo watching them, laughing and shouting at what a bunch of ninnies they were. The lads grew breathless over time and waded towards shore where the water receded and streaked down their tanned muscled skin to reveal bold heedless erections and sloppy wet feet. Frodo's breath caught at the sight of them together like this. None pointed or seemed appalled by the state of their bodies. And although Tom waived them off and walked over to steal Sam's towel out from under him, the other two continued their tussle until they fell down into the slick grass, giggling and pressing themselves against one another.

Tom ignored them and lay in the grass near Sam in the full sun, talking casually to him about silage storage or some odd thing while Tom's arousal gradually faded and relaxed despite the now telling moans coming from the remaining pair, who were fully tangled together and rutting upon one another like pups. Frodo was transfixed by this. Mouth agape and heart fluttering, he lowered himself further in the grasses and hoped he would remain unseen. The picture before him was so natural and unassuming. Sam and Tom's complete lack of surprise or disdain for the jubilant pair took whatever sensibilities Frodo had been raised up to accept and turned them quite arse over teakettle. Round-eyed and dizzy with his own growing excitement, Frodo forced his panting chest to pace itself as he tore his gaze from one pair to the next.

The lads' sounds of enjoyment only grew more intense as their motions became less random and more precise, hands joining the activity, to squeeze and increase the friction, their mouths alternating between rough kisses and requests for more of this and oh-don't-stop, that.

"Keep it down over there; you want Old Noakes coming out with his whip?" Sam called out to them and he and Tom exchanged a knowing grin. Tom patted Sam's behind as they laughed at some common joke, his hand just falling to trail down over Sam's hip to his groin. Sam rolled then, exposing himself to Frodo's view. The Cotton lad's fingers opened to grasp what was clearly half-filled and willing to receive. 

Frodo squeezed his eyes shut. He could not watch this. He could not. His Sam, his beautiful, young, innocent Sam was lying not thirty feet away opening his legs to welcome the touch of It was more than Frodo could comprehend; and no less confusing than the throbbing response from his own body, so eager to know that very touch, yet so afraid of it. So ashamed he was, even as he rose upon unsteady legs to slink away back through the brush to the paths he knew and understood, once again alone with the silent pleading of his body.

***

It was some days before Frodo could bring himself to look Sam in the eye again. The vivid picture he now carried of him lying bare to the sky in the grass with Tom would not fade, nor allow for many other thoughts, to the point that Bilbo felt he required some talking to. "Now Frodo, what's with all this wool-gathering? You've not eaten more than half your meals in some days and you've got your head quite turned around by some trouble or other. What have you been poking your nose into?"

The real trouble was Frodo longed so desperately to speak with someone more knowledgeable than he on these matters, and certainly that was what Bilbo was here for. But whenever he tried to find the words, his tongue grew leaden and he would mumble some excuse about not feeling well and shuffle off to his bedroom to try and work out the quandary on his own.

He was not disappointed in Sam; that was the most surprising. At first he thought that hot clotted feeling in his throat was hurt. But it was not. It was envy. That Sam, his young Sam knew of these things, had seen these things, done these things, all on his own and Frodo twelve years his senior had only recently come upon the mere notion of such experiences through a locked set of translations--it was a bitter draught to swallow. Frodo would see Sam outside his windows in the sunlight, whistling a tune and swinging a hoe, and wonder: How did he begin to know? Who showed him? Had he rolled about with Tom as the other lads had that day at the pools? Was Tom Sam's love, or just a warm palm on a lazy day?

Frodo knew now that he had felt largely important to Sam by virtue of his own educational prowess. It swelled his heart with pride to aid Sam in the learning of literature's morals and mysteries. He'd taken credit for being the erudite visionary to open Sam's mind to the vast circles of the world beyond hearth and croft, who spoke and read to him of elves and dwarves and dragons, all the while drinking in Sam's wide-eyed wonder as he leaned on his every word. To know now that there were mysteries somehow simpler yet greater than these weightless written words, and that Sam _knew_ them--that Sam knew the very thing Frodo had come to desire beyond all else--little wonder his head was all turned about.

As the last days of summer grew to an end and the cooler breezes of autumn flew in, Frodo's envy turned to curiosity and he began to consider, if he could not bring himself to broach the issue with Bilbo, then perhaps he could speak with Sam a little about it. Sam would be trustworthy and honest and not allow him to feel embarrassed, certainly. They'd spoken openly on so many topics of controversy before. Why not ask Sam? Frodo decided this would be the best course to take, but once again fell upon the difficulty of getting his tongue to agree. So instead, Frodo opted to discourse with Sam in a manner in which he was most familiar--Frodo showed Sam the books. 

"What's this?" Sam had asked, turning the soft leather copybooks about in his lap during a rare discussion evening when Bilbo happened to be out. "There's no writing on the covers."

Frodo stood beside him, taking his uncle's place as mentor for the evening. "They're a special translation set down by Bilbo some years ago. He doesn't know I have them."

Sam looked warily at Frodo, the parlour firelight glancing upon his cheeks. "Then begging your pardon, sir, he might not take too well to me handling them. If they're among the finest of his collection, leastways."

Frodo hid his trembling hands in the pockets of his waistcoat. "They're not rare, in that fashion, I don't think. Just secret."

"Why secret? They're Elvish, aren't they?" Sam opened the red book carefully. "Sindarin, I'd guess by Mr. Bilbo's lettering."

"Yes, Sam; it's Sindarin. Mid-second age by the Tengwar, but the tale is much older."

"What sort of tale?" Sam asked, curiously.

Frodo cleared his throat. "An adventure story, mostly. About two elf princes and their quest."

"Oh," Sam said, excitedly. "Would you like me to read a passage?"

Frodo couldn't find the courage to answer before Sam flipped open the book to where Frodo had first placed a ribbon marker. He moved a candle closer to his seat on the bench and laid a hand upon the pages.

"Here we go," Sam said, diving right in. He read the pages slowly, but with good rhythm and attention to the metre. He stumbled over a few obscure words Frodo quietly assisted him with, seemingly oblivious to the chapter's content as his voice did not start or stutter over the meanings. Frodo began to worry that Sam's reading comprehension might be lacking, when Sam stumbled altogether on the same word Frodo had months before when it first appeared in the green book.

"Mr. Frodo, what's frr..ottI can't make it out."

Frodo had turned somewhat away from Sam to stare at the fire, his hand steady on the back of Bilbo's chair. "Frottage," he said, his own voice sounding distant like this was some dream, not real at all.

"Frot-tage," Sam repeated. "What's it mean, sir?"

"It means" Frodo said in that same odd voice, "to rub one surface against another."

"Oh, well, that makes some sense."

Frodo turned, coming out of his dazedness. "What do you mean, Sam?" Sam jumped a little at this, but Frodo hadn't meant to sound so sharp. "I'm sorry, Sam. I mean, what did you think of the passage?"

Sam was a bit unnerved, but clearly not by the writing when he replied. "It's a good read, sir. The wording is verywhat do you say? Lyrical?"

"Yes, Sam; it is lovely wording. Bilbo's a master translator, but what of the tale itself? What do you make of it?"

Sam shrugged and looked back to the book, turning the pages over in his hands. "Sounds like lads being lads to me."

Frodo knew he shouldn't have expected anything more disconcerted from Sam, but this still managed to surprise him. "Then, it does not strike you as odd, that two lads shouldhold one another in this fashion?"

Sam may have been born simple, but he was no fool; he could read Frodo's unease as easily as he'd read the runes and answered carefully, although truthfully. "No, sir. Should I? Begging your pardon, but 'tis common enough."

"True," Frodo said, feeling his way around a difficult start. "Thoughnot so common to me."

Sam's brow narrowed as he pondered his meaning. "Did you not have mates up in Buckland, sir?"

Frodo let out a breath; he was through the hedge now. "No, Sam. Not really. I was much older than many of my cousins, and the older boys, they would not have me about. It wasn't something often spoken of, nor encouraged."

"Oh!" said Sam, as if everything now fell into place for him. "Are you asking me then, about it?"

Frodo felt he might fall over with relief and took the chair. "I don't know of anyone else I _can_ ask, Sam."

Sam set the books aside on the bench and smiled warmly at Frodo. "You could ask me, sir. But if you don't mind me saying, it would be far easier if you let me show you."

***

Frodo had met Sam at the edge of Hobbiton's birch groves in the long shadows of a failing afternoon not long after. A sundown wind had risen, blowing the small brown leaves around them and upon Sam's curly head and grey cloak. 

Frodo greeted his friend shyly as they fell into step. Sam smiled and took his hand in his, swinging their arms casually as he led him to a place some ways from the path where he had set down blankets and a costrel of warm cider. 

Even now, Frodo could still recall that heavy feeling he'd carried, low and full in anticipation of this meeting. He'd worn his cloak off the shoulder to hide what he knew he should not be ashamed to show, it being the purpose of their rendezvous. But his upbringing and inherent shyness would not subside, even as Sam welcomed him into a generous hug, and kissed his ear, telling him once again how everything would be all right. He needn't worry; his Sam would take care of him.

The cider was still sweet upon their lips, as Sam kissed him and settled them under the blankets, sheltering them as the wind whispered and the branches murmured over their heads. Frodo reached for him, both wanting and frightened, as Sam lay close beside him, speaking so kindly to him, stroking his hair as his lips softly kissed his face and trembling hands. 

"Shall I remove this?" Frodo could recall asking, fumbling for the catch of his cloak. 

Sam circled his wrist, no. He would see to what was required. "Just lie back, sir."

Sam moved over him, and Frodo moaned when he felt the weight of his friend full upon him, pressing the same hard, yet muffled, desire to his own. He moved then, a gentle rocking. The friction gained between the layers of their clothes beat like licks of flame all along Frodo's aching flesh, making him gasp and wriggle for more. 

It had been so simple, no worries or awkward moves--just Sam, his Sam, so strong and sure guiding them. Frodo soon became lost in the power and beauty of it. Eyes shut, his fingers clenched in Sam's grey cloak, he whispered to him--a wordless pleading, heedless of where his voice might carry--knowing only that this motion, this closeness should never end, until the feeling gathering hot and pounding in his buried groin could hold no longer and he abandoned himself to the deep freeing pleasure of release. 

Sam followed soon after, shifting and settling into a steadier motion, his face buried in the hood of Frodo's sideways cloak, his final expression of relief as secret and precious as the fluids spilled from their bodies, wrapped and hidden in linen under wool.

The memory of their first innocent tryst never failed to drive a flurry of desire through Frodo, even now--it was and had remained his most beloved remembrance. Had they lain there long afterwards? He was not certain. There were shy kisses and more cider and a promise to meet again, someday soon, when Sam would not be missed. But the sky had gone dark by the time he stumbled home, flushed and already hard from the memory as he took hurriedly to the bath, biting back his moans as the soapy water sloshed over him, concealing his secrets once again.

***

There were the times that followed, in the garden alone together for a few stolen minutes, while Bilbo and the Gaffer shuffled off for a smoke or to discuss the late harvest. Quick and quiet they would duck into the shed or below the footbridge planks. Feet ankle-deep in the stream, they would kiss and grasp one another in a flurry of hands and buttons. Hand to groin they would find one another and the muffled sounds of their pleasure would be scattered in the splashing stream or the groan of the water pump. It would be over in moments, passion surging and spilling through them in one mindless wave. Breathless and trembling, they'd struggle to cover up what little they had been able to let free in a heart-pounding rush, standing apart, listening for soft footfalls now that reason had found its way back to them. 

There were times when no opportunities came for weeks or more and the waiting would become such a distraction that Frodo would jump at the very sound of the back gate opening or the grinding wheels of the rusty wheelbarrow. "My, how you've become a skittish mouse," Bilbo would remark and advise him to stop reading so late in bed--to which Frodo would blush furiously, even though that might not be what Bilbo meant, but his heart could think of no other reason to keep beating but to hope to find Sam hidden and alone once again. 

Frodo did very little reading in bed during those blurry autumn nights, yet kept an innocuous book he'd read many times before at his bedside table. He'd move the marker ever so slowly night by night, while instead he'd lie wide awake thinking of Sam: Sam's private scent and warmth, musky and slick in his hands, his tongue sliding over his own, his fingers tangled in his curls, the sound of his stifled groans and thrusts as he lifted Frodo against a fence post, masonry or other found bracing. But mostly he ached for the blissful memory of that first discovery, of the privacy of the birch grove and the passing minutes to lie close and be held and comforted--to feel Sam's weight upon him again and to not worry about their elders finding grass shoots or gravel where it should not be. In the looking-glass by candlelight he would trace the fading mark Sam had made on his skin with his teeth, when they'd backed against the grapevine trellis and the force of Sam's standing climax had been too great to silence. 

Awake, he'd lay some nights till the early hours, wretched and yearning for something no mere self-pleasure could allay. _If this is love_, Frodo thought_, then it is a curse I wish to be freed from, to be locked away in a silver box and forgotten._ But then the thought of rising in the dawn and not straining to listen for that whistling over the Hill, to think of nothing more than tea and a day's bookish pursuits would crush his spirit and bring the sharp sting of tears to his eyes. No, the only thing worse Frodo could imagine then not having Sam in his arms would be to not have had Sam at all. And he'd blow out his candles and let exhaustion take him over into sleep.

***

They were delivered from their torments by yet another dropped candle. Bilbo had set fire to his sacred basket of Old Toby, the replacement of which required a four day trip to Longbottom, which Bilbo wasted no time in preparing for himself. Frodo knew this would give him ample opportunity to slip away all day and night if he desired, but it was Sam that was the most watched. At his father's side, hands to soil, dawn to dusk, Sam's duties were only relieved on Highday and even then he was expected to spend his leisure time at home or down in Bywater in the company of lads his own age and status. How Frodo envied those lads, able to play and roll about as they pleased with hardly a knock on the wrist for their mischief. 

"Do you go back to the pools, Sam, on Highday?" Frodo had asked him quietly, during one of their reading sessions when Bilbo had stepped out to fetch more sweetcake and tea. They sat close, yet apart, knowing what the nearest brush could stir in them at a heart's beat.

Sam had looked up from his book, a look of concern upon his face. "I do, sometimes," he admitted. "But more for the bath and not for the play, if you follow me. Not like I did. Not like I donow with you." His voice had rasped the last words and his brown eyes held all the trust and loyalty Frodo could desire. It made him flush and he looked back to the book he held upon his lap.

"I'm glad, Sam," he said and let a grin ease his tender heart. _So very glad._

So it came to be, during the Gamgee's efforts to help air out Bag End's back halls of excess leaf smoke, that Frodo pulled Sam aside into the deepest cellar on some meaningless errand so that they might plan a way to meet. Frodo threw his arms about Sam's neck and kissed him soundly as soon as they'd felt the cool bricks beneath their feet. 

"Bilbo means to be away for four days, two days hence. I shall be alone here. Oh, Sam, what can we do?"

Sam looked both elated and dumbfounded. "My Dad," he said. "He wouldn't let me out of his sight for all the weed in Southfarthing."

"But evenings, Sam. Can you manage to get out?"

"Aye, and have from time to time to have a look at the moon. But I always come right back. He'd box my ears if I took off up the Row and he came calling for me as he does of nights when his joints are bad."

"Then," Frodo said, "perhaps I can ask Bilbo to inquire for your assistance with my well-keeping. He knows I've been skittish lately; maybe he would let you stay to keep me company. Bag End certainly has the room."

Sam looked worried. "Do you think he'll suspect?"

Frodo pondered this; it had been so difficult to read Bilbo since all this began. Sometimes Frodo felt he must know from the scant occasions they'd nearly been caught, flushed and breathless, a button or two askew--and then the chance he might know as he had done with the translations--perhaps Bilbo might leave the box unlocked once again. "I have to try," he said, gazing longingly at Sam. "I want to lie with you, Sam. To have you in my bed, beside me, the whole of the night where all I have to think about is you."

The sweetest smile lit Sam's face and he brushed Frodo's curls from his cheek. "Then ask, love. Or I'll jump the moon to find you."

Frodo almost fainted with happiness when the answer he sought came back as 'yes.' Even more incredible was Bilbo's announcement that Sam's Gaffer was to accompany him on his trip. Certainly, both elder hobbits felt Bag End would be kept better those days and nights if Sam were about to see Frodo properly fed and minded. He would stay in the guest room nearest Frodo's own to help ease what Bilbo was now calling Frodo's 'nightgoblins.' "The lad needs some company to keep him out of his own shadows. Sam's the proper lad to see to it. And be mindful of the guttering candles!"

***

As agreed, Sam arrived at the back door the following Hevensday when his duties were over, a fat blueberry pie in his hands from Bell Gamgee. Frodo laughed as he greeted him and they hurried inside, nearly dropping the delicacy in a rush to press their mouths together. Pie upon the table, and his arms wrapped firmly about his love, Frodo was soon grasping at Sam's braces and tugging him backwards into the main smial, stumbling over dropped books, not allowing the kiss to break. They'd made it nearly to his bedroom, shirts untucked, and trousers half unbuttoned, before Sam caught them at the door trim. 

"Not to spoil your wishes, sir. But I rushed right over and am in a bit of a need of a wash. If you've a basin handy, I thought I might"

Frodo silenced him with another firm kiss. "Sam, you're brilliant! The bath! I hadn't even thought of it. Come with me!"

A half an hour later, kettles steaming and bench and sill lit with candles, they found themselves sunk to the hip upon their knees in warm soapy water, chest to chest, spreading bubbles and slick wet pleasure between them. Hands sought every limb and curve and crease, passing low to stroke and tease the demanding heat thrusting slowly belly to belly. Frodo lost each cry and moan, deep and hungry, caught around Sam's tongue and between his willing lips. His palms, slippery with foam, sought the span of Sam's back and shoulders, smoothing over the golden skin to his bottom and thighs, kneading and soaping the very form and frame of him. He surprised them both with his daring and curiosity, as his fingertips searched low and hidden into the fur-lined hollows of Sam's body, releasing those quivering hidden treasures. And Sam did the same, slipping between them to weigh and coddle, then rise and narrow to grasp them hard together, rubbing with slow perfection, drawing them close, so close, only to let go and rock Frodo in his arms, easing the expectant tension with kneading fingers down his spine. Their movements which had first been playful, then curious and bold, grew ever lighter and more delicate until hands stopped all together and mouths fell open, chins tucked over shoulders to hold each other closer and closer, yet move in ever slighter and subtler circles of hip and thigh, until the effort to prolong the inevitable slipped and they thrust greedily into the force of their climax, clinging and shouting the joy of their surging passion to the beaded dripping walls.

Frodo had kissed Sam in his bed until his lips ached from the endless delight it gave him. They'd slipped clean and dried between the soft cotton sheets upon the deep feather mattress to find all the best ways to mould into one another for the sweetest embrace, the fullest hug. Sam's sturdy wider frame was a perfect fit for his own slimmer one and it was irresistibly pleasant to try every possible combination of front to front or back to front or anything else they could imagine. Sam's curly chest to his back was the most heavenly and they'd slept for sometime in that fashion, two mussed heads upon one pillow, until a stretch or lazy shift of a limb would wake them from their doze to seek the other's lips once more. 

They'd made love twice more in that bed before dawn--Frodo lying upon Sam and seeking his flesh with a curious wandering tongue, tasting his skin, ever lower, until he filled Frodo's mouth with teased and swollen need. Sam quickened within him, and he swallowed his lover's stunned response before being lifted and turned around to savour the amazing discovery for himself, as Frodo came to know no sensation more favourable than that of the parting of Sam's lips, sheathing him in wet moving heat. They rose again sometime before dawn, Frodo seated across Sam's thighs, arms pinned behind him by strong firm hands, writhing, back arched and neck exposed to the hot trails of Sam's tongue, moving with one another so fluidly as if they were born to fit in his perfect embrace. Frodo became utterly lost in it, all the shimmering glowing feelings, until there was no world outside this bed, no other being breathed or walked upon the earth other than his Sam.

At last, sometime past the fifth hour, hunger drove them from the sheets and up the smial to sit with bare bottoms upon the kitchen table. Feet dangling, the pie balanced across their laps, they scooped dark purple sweetness through each other's lips--full sloppy handfuls of berry-leaden buttery crust, bursting with thick juices that sated their neglected bellies when it didn't ooze upon a bare thigh or stain a perfectly lickable neck. Every morsel was savoured and devoured, licked clean from pan, hand, and fingers and melted between tongues sunk deep in delicious kisses and moans of satisfaction.

"Mayhap I should see to the garden soon," Sam had mumbled around the last mouthful of their spent pie.

"No" Frodo said, becoming lost in a kiss as he sought to linger upon the fruit-rich tastes still hidden in Sam's mouth. "I never want to think about the outside again. Just you, only and forever."

***

Sam did insist upon feeding them properly later that afternoon, if it was afternoon, for Frodo didn't want the curtains parted or for either of them to wear much clothing, though he allowed Sam a long apron, the white ties dangling comically around his pink rump as he stirred and fried.

Bellies full and bodies sore from making good use of the cluttered kitchen table, Frodo had lain back in Sam's arms upon the cushioned parlour bench, a blanket about them both, reading to him from the red translation book. He went over every detail of each coupling and discussed with Sam how they might improve upon some of the ideas. Frodo confessed how he had already imagined every form of love described therein with Sam and they both agreed to attempt to cover the majority before their time ran short, provided they'd not expire first in the attempt.

Frodo especially wanted Sam to attempt penetration with him, and after a long nap before the fire and another quick meal, they returned to the bath to try it. It did not go quite as Frodo had thought it would, and in fact, didn't go very far at all. He was crestfallen by this and blamed himself for having some flaw in his constitution the book did not mention. 

"It's all right, love," Sam whispered, his wet arms pulling him up from his knees and holding him close, stroking his wet tangled hair. "You needn't try so hard, you know."

"I want to please you, Sam," he'd said, sitting back in the water with him, gathered into his lap. "I want to give you everything."

Sam kissed his forehead and nuzzled his cheek. "You do, Frodo. You always have."

Frodo turned to look into his friend's eyes. "Do you love me, Sam?" he asked. 

Sam could not find words to answer right away, but tears moistened his eyes. "I always have," he said and hugged Frodo tight. Frodo buried his face in Sam's neck, wondering how he would ever manage to let go again.

***

They had tried to stay awake for as long as possible, even when they could no longer muster even the smouldering embers of their desire. These quieter moments when Sam held him close in his bed as they dozed, were the most endearing embraces they'd shared. Frodo could recall waking from a light dream sometime in the early morning, to feel Sam slip an arm under his waist to take him in a full hug, burying his nose in Frodo's hair. He slipped his leg over Frodo's, entwining himself about him as the old oak roots cradled Bag End. Frodo lay pliant, in quiet wonder as Sam, who did not know he had awoken, breathed in the scent of his shoulders and trailing curls, his heart beating solid against his spine and his breath coming in ragged sighs as he fought to contain some emotion. Frodo thought of that first time in the birch grove when Sam had buried his face in the hood of his cloak. _Why do you hide this from me?_ He wondered, but would not break the spell for the world as he felt Sam calm and nestle his member, soft and sleepy, against the curve of his bottom and return to sleep.

***

Sam wanted to know how the tale ended and asked that Frodo read to him from the blue book on their final afternoon. Frodo had been reluctant, for the only thing keeping his heart together now was his denial of Sam's inevitable departure from his home at nightfall. But Sam would not be swayed and Frodo relented, curling up in his arms before the hearth and resting his head against Sam's shoulder as he read the last sections, right up to the lovers' tragic bloody deaths.

Sam was quiet as Frodo closed the book and set it aside. His lover's face wore a distant, private expression, as the firelight glowed on his bare skin. Sam had never looked more beautiful to Frodo than in that moment, older somehow, dearer, yet so far away in a place unknown to him. Frodo sat loosely in Sam's arms, wanting to hug him tightly and swear to him that he would never leave his side should all the heartless evil in the world turn upon them. But he did not, and when Sam still failed to reveal his inner thoughts to him upon learning the tragic end to this all-consuming love, Frodo got up and excused himself to the bathroom where he stood over the sink, staring at his shivering dishevelled reflection in the looking-glass. _Who am I? _He asked. _Who have I become?_

***

Frodo had stood, shamefully clinging to Sam, at Bag End's open back door. Sam held him, the hour growing late and his coat on, while Frodo's tears fell upon the coarse wool. They'd been unable to let go of each other after several attempts to say goodbye and the air in the kitchen had long gone cold from the draught. He had wanted to be strong for Sam, but the thought of having to go back to watching and waiting for a furtive mating in the garden shadows seemed a cruel substitute for what they had come to know these brief four days.

"I don't know how I'll bear it," he said quietly, wiping his tears against Sam's shoulder. "How can I wake without you beside me? How can I sleep?"

Sam did not answer him in words for some time, but stroked his back and kissed his tears--driven speechless by his own emotions. At last, Sam took Frodo's hands between his own and brought them to his lips. "I'll always be near," he said, squeezing his eyes shut. He turned away quickly, dropping his hands, and stepped out into the night under the light of the full moon.


	4. IV: Blue

IV: Blue

If Bilbo noticed the puffed circles under Frodo's eyes the next morning or heard any of his broken weeping late in the night, when he at last returned, he made no indication of such. Frodo found he had nothing much to say to him at perfunctory meals which he picked over. To Frodo, each day from then on was like an arduous trek across a vast empty field, lost and meaningless and exhausting. It frustrated him and confounded him to no end to learn that within the brightness of love also dwelt the dark pain of longing and loneliness. The more he had of Sam, the more miserable his life in the long days without him had become. 

He was not able to abide the separation for long. Even passing by Sam in the garden to catch his eyes for but a moment's wishing no longer filled Frodo's heart with hope, but twisted it with anguish. Sam was kept busy day after day and not even once were they able to meet beyond the reach of the Gaffer. Even Bilbo, often careless in his supervision of Frodo, had become more attentive and watchful of him, asking where he was going in the long afternoons and when he intended to come back, often requesting that he be timely in joining him for luncheon and dinner.

When each Highday came, Frodo would set off early in the morning, walking alone through the backwash of the pools, hoping that perhaps this week Sam would come here to see his friends and that they might meet and slip off into the long grasses, unnoticed. In the mornings, the pools were smooth and quiet. No one came for weeks and Frodo would sit listening to the sparrows in the trees and the frogs in the marsh and knew himself to be very alone.

One day, Frodo got to the pools later than usual--due to Bilbo's insistence in a lengthy morning tea. As he made his way through the reeds, he could hear voices echoing across the water. Some lads were splashing about on the far shore, but near, upon the old dock, sat two hobbits side by side, their fishing lines dropped into the water. The jovial chime of laughter rang in the air between them. It was Sam and Tom, sitting in the sun, happy as larks with their ankles locked together as they swung their feet over the water. Tom rubbed the glee from his eyes and leaned in to nuzzle Sam's temple.

Frodo felt as if his heart had been crushed by a suffocating weight. He turned away, hurt and betrayal colouring all his thoughts. He wanted to flee back into some hidden place far from these muddy pools where he might never show his face again. _Fool, stupid fool! Why did you think Sam would spend his days alone? He's no cause to. You've seen him before, free as a sparrow in summer._

He wanted to run and told his legs to do so, but they would not. Hiding is what he had done before when he was ashamed, when he had believed himself to be a cruel twist of nature no proper society would abide. Frodo had gained something he'd not thought the books would give him; he'd learned to esteem himself. So he stood up and parted the reeds before him as he stepped into the sunlight.

Frodo said nothing until he was all of a yard behind the pair upon the short dock. Tom heard the creaking on the old boards and turned about.

"Well, good afternoon, Mr. Frodo!"

Sam's jump and startled eyes told all. 

"Am I no better than a cowherd, Sam?" Frodo said to him, without emotion.

Sam dropped his pole in the water and stumbled to his feet, wiping his hands on his dirty trousers. "FrMr. Frodo. I'd not expected you out this way today!"

"No, it would seem not," he said passively, giving Tom a look that made the lad scramble to gain his legs just as fast. "Quite unexpected."

"We'd just been doin' a bit o' fishing this afternoon," Tom said, pulling off his cap and nodding his head.

"Would you like to stay a spell, Mr. Frodo?" Sam said even more awkwardly.

Frodo backed away from the two of them with a dismissive shake of his head. Who knew what he might have missed earlier in the day: Tom with his crude fish-smelling hands upon Sam, his Sam! Or worse, Sam returning the favour, fondling this farmer's son with the same hands and lips that had brought him to such abandon in the fine linens of Bag End. 

"Has he shown you everything, Tom?" Frodo said without thought as his feet gained land again. "What about the trick with the hand soap? Has he managed that?"

It was Tom's turn to take a step back, clearly befuddled and not a little frightened. He looked to Sam as if to plead for him to somehow remedy the situation. Sam opened his mouth to try and speak, but instead marched forward to take Frodo by the elbow, a look of disapproval upon his face. "Mr. Frodo, begging your pardon, but you're not well."

Frodo shook him off and turned about, walking briskly away. "Leave me alone, Sam! Stick to your own kind!" He broke into a run and made for the thickest part of the marsh, but the wet earth and reeds slowed him and he floundered, falling upon his side. Sam was upon him, lifting him up out of the muck. "Steady now, Frodo. Here, let me"

Frodo refound his legs and shrugged him off. "You will address me properly!" he shouted.

Away from Tom's sight, Sam's face had crumpled into a confusion of misery and hurt. "What's wrong, Mr. Frodo? What did I do? Please tell me."

Frodo did not run, but stood his ground before Sam, brushing his mud-splattered sleeve. "I asked you, in plain words, did you or did you not come to the pools."

"Aye! And I said I did!" Sam said, a mist gathering in his eyes. "'tweren't no lie, 'cause here I am. And if you thought there was some foolin' going on betwixt Tom and me, you couldn't be more wrong. 'cause there's nothing like that! I told you so. I haven'tnot since we...not since _you_. I couldn't imagine it."

Frodo searched Sam's eyes for the truth, his crushed heart threatening to beat right through his chest. "Then tell me what I saw, Sam, because I don't know what I'm supposed to think anymore."

Sam glanced quickly over his shoulder, back towards the water. "What? That? Fishing?"

Frodo looked at him scornfully. "Is that what you call it? It seemed much dearer than that. Do you fish with your brothers this way?"

Sam's face sank, his cheeks reddening as he tried to come up with an explanation. "Mr. Frodo, you've got to understand. Tom and me, we were raised together, since we were bairns. Tom's been my best mate all my life. Just that. There's aught I wouldn't share with him. But I don't play about with him as I did. He's wanted to know why and I told him I'd fallen for someone and it didn't seem right no more. I kept it dark as to who. He thinks I have an eye for his sister and I didn't correct him."

"Why not tell him, Sam? Are you ashamed of me?"

"No, sir! Nothing of the kindit's just" Sam stammered and could not look at him.

"It's what, Sam? What is it? Look at me! Why do you hide from me? What is it about what you do with me that shames you so, when you've had no second thought of coupling lads in full sight of half of Bywater for years?"

Sam shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. "These are my _mates_, sir"

"But I don't want mates, Sam. I want a lover who would die for me. I wanted him to be you."

Sam head came up sharply at this, mouth parted in astonishment, and if Frodo wasn't mistaken, a glimmer of hope shown behind the tears. "But I haven't any claim to you," he said. "I'm no great elf warrior, sir. Just a hobbit, the Gaffer's youngest son. I've no cause to hope for such grand things. Thoughif I ever lost you, I wouldn't think nothing of taking up a sword, 'cause it would feel like that anyways, like a blade gone right through me. There's naught else I know of that's mattered to me as much, and I don't want there to be."

Frodo's hurt faded in an instant. He gasped in wonder, witnessing Sam's heart cut open and bleeding before him. He took a gentle step forward. "Who's told you this, Sam? Who's told you that you have no claim to me?"

Sam kept his eyes to the ground. "It's the way of things, sir. We can't go changing them. You are gentry, sir, and I am just plain folk. They will not let us be, make no mistake."

Frodo held out a hand to raise Sam's shaken face. "I'm sorry," he choked. "I didn't understand. It's all so confusing." He gathered Sam into his arms and kissed his hair. "Forgive me, Sam. Please, can you forgive me?"

Sam hugged him back as if the ground might fall away beneath them if he didn't hold on tight. Sam held him until his roughened hands found Frodo's face and he answered him with a kiss.

***

"Mr. Frodo, I think someone's coming," Sam said, fearfully, breaking their embrace to raise his head and peer through the grass and reeds.

Frodo knew it was foolish to deny Sam's warning, but he was too far gone to care or have any sense of anything other than Sam need not rise from him, not yet. "ShhSam, it's the lads, don'tplease, here"

He pulled Sam close again, desperate to continue what was so close to completion, trousers about their ankles and Sam's body writhing against his, warm and beautiful, bellies slick with their exertions. How could he stop when all the emotions of the day and the long waiting had brought them to this, fallen in the grass together, seeking to ease the confusion and ache the only way they knew how. 

Sam had found his release quite suddenly and explosively before they'd hardly begun, Frodo whispering to him all the while, "I love you, Sam. I love you" He needed to find that relief so badly for himself, to lose all the hurt and doubt in a rush of sweet oblivion. "Shh, Sam, here"

The blood was roaring through his ears when the first crack of the whip fell, followed by a cry from some unknown voice, harsh and angry, "Samwise Gamgee, if I'dn't given you a lick afore this!" 

Sam cried out and threw himself over Frodo in protection. The second blow came down all the same and Frodo felt a slap across his face like a burning brand. Blood filled his mouth as he struggled to unbury himself. He sat up, an arm held high to stop the third rear of the whip, tails splaying in the sun, that suddenly dropped and fell into the grass. A wail of fear followed, like none he'd ever heard, sounding through the grasses and the back pools.

***

They sat in the parlour, a pot of tea hastily made and cooling untouched upon the table. Frodo sat sullen on the hearthstones, dressed in a clean set of clothes and dabbing his seeping lip with an unctuous compress. Old Noakes sat in his dirty britches upon the best chair in Bag End across from Bilbo who occupied the long bench, still flushed from all the to-do. The Gaffer had taken Sam home by the ear to have Bell dress his wounds.

"I don' know what I 'ken say to 'pologize rightly to 'ee, sir. I sure weren't lookin' to find your lad out there with the swineherds and plowboys. I near lost my life seein' that boy come up out o' th' grass." The farmer was shaking terribly and wrung his bag-like hat between his dirty knuckles over and over, only daring to glance upon Frodo's disfigured lip in an occasional furtive shudder. Frodo looked daggers at him, not giving him a second's peace as he pressed the linen bundle to his throbbing wound. The cat-o-nine-tails had caught him up the inside of his chin and across his lower lip, splitting it open. The rest had fallen across his shoulder and the back of Sam's neck. The first lash had hit Sam squarely across the buttocks.

"I daresay you should of thought of that before you took up your whip," Frodo grumbled from the hearth.

"Be silent, Frodo," Bilbo said tersely, his eyes intent on the farmer's wrung cap. "You have done enough damage today as-is. Let Noakes speak."

The beleaguered farmer had been babbling and apologising and asking the "lor' to bless him" since their ride back from Bywater in his rickety ox-wagon. Bilbo had come running down Bag End's steps all pale when he saw the blood on Frodo's face and Sam lying upon his side against a potato sack, wincing, trousers blotched in red. "What in heaven's name has happened here?"

Frodo had been silent with the farmer during their ride, enjoying his terror and discomfort. Townsfolk on the road had gasped in shock at them and Frodo let everyone see exactly what harm he had come to. But somehow this had not moved Bilbo, who had called for the Gaffer, back in the garden, to come right quick and help him collect Sam from the wagon bed. 

Once he and Sam were pronounced bloody, but sound, Bilbo sent Sam and his father off home and walked calmly into Bag End to prepare Frodo's compress and start tea. Ever since their return, Frodo had been anxiously awaiting the moment his uncle would take some of that silent anger he saw heating about his ears and tear into the irresponsible cur. But no such reprimands had been forthcoming and the farmer had been instead served by his better and offered the plush parlour chair to place his filthy arse upon.

"Be silent? I will not be silent! This peasant whipped me! Or can't you see that?"

"Frodo, go to your room," he said sternly, reaching for the teapot.

Frodo couldn't believe what he was hearing. He hadn't been asked to go to his room since he was a mid-tween. "Excuse me?"

Bilbo straightened in his seat and turned to him with an expression that told Frodo all at once those bright red ears were for him. _Him! _"I will not ask you twice," he said in a voice so calm and even it made Frodo tremble. Before he knew it, he was on his feet, throwing the compress to the floor and making for his bedroom door, which he slammed hard behind him.

***

From his bedroom, Frodo could hear the elders talking--Bilbo in a soft calm voice and the farmer in a gradually less distressed one. After half an hour of clinking teacups, the Gaffer returned and the talk continued. Old Noakes left soon after. Bilbo and Sam's father spoke for some time after that--to what end, Frodo could not guess.

It was quiet afterwards. Frodo lay sulking upon his coverlet, where he eventually fell into a light sleep despite the throbbing in his lip. He was awakened by a rap upon his door. 

"Frodo, I will speak with you now."

Frodo did not answer.

"Frodo-lad, open the door," said Bilbo with a sadness in his voice that made Frodo raise his head.

"I am sorry that I did not come to you sooner on this matter. It is as much my fault as yours. Now please, be a good lad and open the door."

Frodo got up and unhooked the bolt, leaving the door closed as he fell back upon the bed, facing away as it opened.

Bilbo came in and stood beside the bed with a heavy sigh. "You are angry with me, I know. I am very sorry you were hurt, but listen. There are going to be some changes. You will not understand them, but I am hoping with time you will come to see why I made them. Sam is going to Northfarthing to live with his uncle."

Frodo spun about, lashed with a pain no whip could have delivered. "What!?"

Bilbo held up his hand. "Until the winter season has passed. Master Hamfast thinks it best and I agree."

Frodo felt panic, hot and white, burn through him. "Why?"

"Because, Frodo, it will be best for Sam."

"How can you say that? Sam belongs here, with us!"

"With _you_, I think you mean. No matter, it is best you are apart sometime until things settle."

"What things? We did nothing wrong! Old Noakes is mad, going about whipping lads as he sees fit." 

"Do not lie to me, Frodo," Bilbo said, sternly. "I am not half the fool you take me for. I may not agree with Noakes' methods of discipline, but you are far from innocent."

"What are you talking about?" Frodo said indignantly.

"I've seen how Samwise looks at you, like you're the rising moon itself, and you're no better at hiding your heart, either. You think I don't know what's gotten into the two of you? I may be old, Frodo, but I'm not blind."

"And what of it?" Frodo said, hiding his shame and embarrassment under a sharp tongue. "I'm quite old enough to make my own decisions about these things." 

"But, the Bywater tributaries, Frodo?" Bilbo said, aghast. "Have you any idea what sort of reputation that part of the Shire has? The garden is one thing, but to go frolicking about on working lands, indeed. I thought you'd have more sense."

"If you and the Gaffer hadn't made things so difficult for us, then I would not have gone so far to find a little privacy!"

Bilbo nodded at him. "I see my error now. I felt all you two needed was a half-week to work through this spirited folly, let off the worst of the steam. I had thought sacrificing my favourite stash of leaf might do the trick. But it only seemed to make the situation worse. You were getting careless, Frodo. We had to put some reins on you both before half the Shire heard you splashing about under the footbridge."

He knew, all along, and yet he said nothing to me! How dare he!

"You've kept many secrets from me, Uncle. I had not thought you would cheat me this way. How else was I to work though this "folly," as you call it, when no one would ever speak a word about it to me? I had to find my way by sneaking off to muddle through obscure books written in foreign tongues to get the first hint that who I was, how I was born, was anything less than an abomination! I know what's true now, and I won't let some serf from back Bywater judge me!" 

Bilbo stood in shock for a moment at what Frodo had just said, the heat from his ears rushing to his cheeks. "Listen to me Frodo," he said firmly. "Do you really believe, because you are half of what little gentry this country has north of Tuckbourough and west of Buckland, that you can order the townsfolk about to suit your whims? I saw how you scowled upon the farmer, and not just for snapping your head out of the clouds, which it was in sore need of. Is this your attitude, Frodo Baggins? Because you did not learn it from me. These people have bled upon this land and sweated over these hearths ages before my father set spade to the Hill. We have a duty to them, Frodo, not the other way around!"

This broke Frodo. He had thought Bilbo's disapproval was for his choice of lover, but that appeared to not be so, not so at all. "But, I love him, Uncle," Frodo said desperately, for now ignoring the truth in Bilbo's words that would shame him. "I love him more than anything in this world! And he loves me. I won't let you take him from me."

"You cannot just have things in this world simply because you desire them, Frodo. Do not doubt it," Bilbo said more quietly, straightening his waistcoat. "You are not as grown-up as you would like to think."

Frodo felt a sob take him. Tears were streaming down his cheeks now and biting the wound on his swollen lip. He licked it painfully with a quivering tongue. He'd run out of words to say, and no longer had the ire to argue with his uncle. _Oh, Sam. What have I done?_ He bowed his head and wept bitterly into his hands as Bilbo left the room to pack him another compress and pour him a cold cup of tea.

***

Sam left two days later in a loaded cart bound for Tighfield. Sam sat next to the Gaffer upon a pillow, still smarting from his wounds that he'd feel upon every bump on every league from here to Northfarthing--no doubt part of the punishment his father had decreed for him. They had not been allowed to speak to one another since that day in Bywater, and Sam looked morosely upon Frodo's scabbed lip like the pain of it hurt him twice as much. 

Frodo wanted to tell him it was not his fault. None of this was, but the Gaffer started them off and all Frodo could do was raise a hand in farewell from the gate, Bilbo at his side, a hand gentle upon his shoulder.

If Frodo had found the end of that fall long, the winter was even longer. Cold and grey, Frodo spent his days indoors with Bilbo reading, but discussing none of it. He was civil enough to him, but blamed every lonely beat of his heart to his uncle's decision to drive Sam away and would not forgive him. He missed Sam terribly and wished for no other visitors but to be alone in his misery. He even turned down Bilbo's offer to take him to Buckland for Yule.

As it turned out, talk had gotten around, and were it not for Sam's removal, more than idle chatter would have come of it. For Frodo had been so visible during their ride home in the Ox-wagon, there was not a pointed ear between here and the three farthing stone that had not heard of the whippings. But the townsfolk, who Frodo held in such little regard, were gentle with it. "It would not do to talk of the heir of Bag End in such ways," they said, but neither was Old Noakes blamed or met with a sour word. This seemed to be largely due to Bilbo's efforts to keep the old hobbit in tea and honey, as they say. 

Cold dreary evenings turned one after another and Frodo cursed his luck that he should have to serve out the winter confined to a smial with the one person he most wanted to escape. He was angry with Bilbo like he'd never been before. He'd been punished before this, been ordered to stay home until he 'straightened up.' He'd been sullen and stubborn about it of course, until his defiance waned and he would lower his pride enough to begin to see Bilbo's wisdom and experience in whatever matter had gotten Frodo into trouble in the first place. But those occasions had been rare and would end with a good talk and plenty of hugs and encouragement and Frodo would recognise the discipline as constructive and all a part of Bilbo's great care and love for him. 

This was different. Frodo did not see the error in his ways, for how could there be error in loving another? Bilbo had tried to open the talk earlier in the process than Frodo was prepared for, for it seemed Bilbo was more concerned than usual to resolve this rift between them. Frodo would close up on him and refuse to speak about Sam at all, or the scabbing on his lip that took weeks to heal, painfully breaking open over and over. 

The lip did heal slowly, until all that was left was a pale scar that would disappear over time. His lip was well on the mend when Bilbo came to him one quiet evening after supper and rested his hand upon Frodo's shoulder. He didn't speak at first and for once Frodo didn't move away. There was a heaviness in his touch, a regret perhaps that made Frodo's closed heart open just a fraction.

"Frodo-lad, why don't you send Samwise a letter? I'm sure he'd like to hear from you. He doesn't know many people up in Northfarthing."

Frodo looked up from his book. "Are you serious?"

Bilbo looked sheepish. "Of course, I'm serious. Sam is your friend, after all. No need to not stay in touch."

Frodo jumped up from under Bilbo's hand and raced to the study, shutting the door behind him. He uncapped the ink, spilling some of it down the blotter and upon his foot in his haste to put pen to paper. He spread out the curled sheets and wrote briskly, voluminously, not giving much thought to what he said, only that he might begin to share some of his frustrations and heartache over the situation and to apologise for being the cause of it all. 

He wrote page after page, denouncing Bilbo and the weather and the endless boredom. That covered, he opened his heart and wrote more slowly about how nothing had changed in his mind and that he loved Sam just as deeply and painfully as ever and could only hope to endure the long bleak winter until he might see him once again. He kept it plain, though, realising some of Sam's nosy elder brothers might come upon it. After some hours, he let the pages dry, then folded them and sealed them with wax.

***

Frodo never received a reply to his letter, nor any of the rest that followed, week after week, until Frodo stopped writing altogether. He knew he had no certainty that Sam was actually getting the letters. Weather was poor up north and it was probable that Sam's relatives had been apprised of the situation and had let the letters slip into the fire. But then Frodo's anxious heart would burn him with the notion that perhaps Sam _had_ received them, but had chosen not to reply. Perhaps he had decided their affair was not for the best and had moved on. 

Although it felt as if the season would never end, warmer weather did return in preparation for a Shire spring. Rethe was growing nigh when Bilbo came to Frodo to let him know Sam was expected to return in time for the Planting Festival in Bywater.

"And may I see him, Uncle?" Frodo asked.

"You may," Bilbo conceded. "But understand, Frodo, you must not behave as you did before. Myself and Master Hamfest will not turn a blind eye this time. Sam has a reputation to keep and a duty to honour his father and his apprenticeship. Any mischief between you two and all the tongues 'tween here and Green Hill will be wagging. Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes, uncle," Frodo said, and at the time he meant it. He only longed to see Sam and to know that all was well between them, and that they were still friends despite all the trouble he'd caused them.

***

The Festival was held from dawn 'till dusk in the old oak forest on the south shore of the Bywater pool. Tables and ribbons were set up between the trees and it snowed food and rained drink as long as the light and the weather held. That 4th of Rethe was a splendid day, bright and airy with new warmth. The snow had melted and the dead marshy grass had dried out and blown away. Minstrels were playing and hobbits young and old from leagues around had come out for the long day, the lasses wearing the first spring lilies in their skirts and hair.

Frodo loved this time of renewal and had thought it a fitting occasion to renew his friendship with Sam, which had been sundered in silence and miles now for five long months. His eyes flitted between the smiles and laughter and dancing, looking for the familiar face of his friend. It was nearing the fourth hour when Frodo spotted the Gamgees' cart coming up the road. Bell and the Gaffer and their three youngest stopped and hitched their sack-leaden cart to an oak. The two girls, dressed in bright colours, hopped out the back to run and join the festivities. Sam got out slowly and stuck to his father's side, helping him unload their many carefully labelled burlap sacks for the traditional seed exchange taking place later that afternoon. 

Frodo's heart beat feverishly at the sight of him; older he seemed, more tentative in his movements. There was a palpable heaviness surrounding him that made Frodo want to run right up and wrap him in his arms and welcome him home and swear to him that all would be well again. Frodo knew he could not do this openly, too many eyes were staring, and instead had to hold back and wait until Sam had moved away from his father in the crowd.

Frodo met him some time later at the edge of the ale pavilion, refilling his father's tankard. 

"Hullo, Sam."

Sam looked up, spilling beer on his toes. He shut off the tap and nodded in polite greeting, licking his foamy thumb. "Hullo, Mr. Frodo. How are you, sir?"

Frodo was taken aback at Sam's distancing tone. He was being addressed as a better, not as a friend, or lover.

"I'm doing fine, Sam," he lied. "How was your trip?"

"Long," Sam said, glancing nervously beyond Frodo to the tables where his parents sat waiting.

Frodo stepped into his line of sight. "Sam, can I speak with you someplace plainly?"

Sam looked nervous. "I don't know if I ought"

"I must speak with you, Sam, alone. I know they don't want you to, but perhaps you could keep your father in ale for a few hours and get away. Just for a moment." Frodo hadn't wanted to sound so desperate, but the pleading in his voice seemed to bring Sam out of his imposed formality. His eyes met Frodo's with a guarded longing that warmed Frodo clear through.

"There's a silo and barn not far from here off the return road, to the south," Sam whispered quickly, as if he had just decided to disregard whatever impossible promises he had made to his father. "No one's used it for years. Can you meet me there an hour before sundown?"

"Yes, Sam. I will."

Sam nodded and hid a smile as he hurried off to deliver the tankard.

***

The barn was old and the planks that kept its walls up were losing their hold on the turning of years. The space was filled with the golden light of the waning day, casting shadows down from the loft where pigeons had taken up residence in the rafters. Frodo found it beautiful, filled with the simple grace he had come to love about the country. The birds stirred and clucked sleepily at his arrival as Frodo walked the straw-covered floor and sat upon an old broken plough and waited for Sam to come.

Some long minutes passed before he heard rustling outside and Sam ran in, heaving and sweating from his jog down the road.

"I did it!" he said, doubling over, trying to catch his breath. "I got him to roll right out under an oak to sleep it off a spell. And my mum, she's driving the girls home while I look after him! Except I'm not!"

Frodo laughed and came over to pat Sam's back as he coughed and struggled to breathe. 

"Easy, Sam. Come over here and sit with me."

Sam cast himself in the straw with a huge sigh and looked up at the bared roof beams. "Oi! I missed this place--all of it. The trees, the fields." he glanced at Frodo who stretched out next to him, "everything."

Frodo didn't know what to say; he was already overcome by the sound of Sam's voice, the way the light of the setting sun cast such a glow in his curls and the soft green-brown of his eyes. The buttons of his weskit were undone and his collar splayed, revealing silky curls. His mouth was full and damp from where he'd licked the beads of sweat from his lip. How could he help himself when Sam was the most beautiful sight in the world to him? 

"How was Northfarthing, Sam? Did you get my letters?"

Sam looked bashful for a moment. "I did. But I had to hide them right fast. They didn't have no ink or quill at my uncle's for replying, seeing as I was the only one of them who could make use of such things. But that still wouldn't have stopped one of my brothers from spying the Baggins' seal."

"They didn't want you to hear from me," Frodo said, understanding.

Sam looked at him solemnly and nodded his head. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't want it to be like this."

"Neither did I," Frodo said softly, so relieved to hear that Sam had not ignored his letters by choice. "I missed you terribly."

"I missed you, too," Sam said, the ache of five long months in his voice as he reached for Frodo's hand, rubbing his palm gently with his thumb. 

Frodo flushed at his touch and smiled, lost in the amazement that Sam was here now, again with him, his warm hand squeezing his. He could smell him, feel the pull of his skin calling to him and he longed for nothing else but to fall into Sam's arms and kiss him senseless. "What did you do in Tighfield?"

Sam shrugged. "There wasn't much to do. It's awful plain up there and terribly cold. Not much grows but grass for miles aroundI learned to tie a lot of knots," he said with an odd grin. Their eyes met and held and Frodo knew not a minute had been lost between them all these long months.

"Do you think you could show me?" he asked, as his breath quickened and the space between them closed to naught.

***

The rope they scrambled around the barn to find had never before been used to bind fair-skinned wrists, nor had the old plough or its yoke been used to brace and hold sweating, straining limbs. Naked and twined, Frodo lay back on the plough beam, knees up with his cloak folded under him. His arms were secured over his head and tied to a milking rung on the wall as Sam sank deep within his flesh--gently as first, so gentle, then later, thrusting, probing, driving him mad with a lust that threatened to break his mind. Sam had learned many things in Tighfield, it would seem, where ropers' lads have even more idle hours to sit about and brag of their conquests. Sam had listened long and came prepared to share every inch of their insight with Frodo as they hungrily mashed lips and tongues together, too long starved of each other.

Sam had playfully, and much to Frodo's insistence, bound him up with what he called a double reverse half-hitch, very good for holding down sheep for shearing. Frodo had laughed, but the tremble in his throat told of his mounting excitement as the rope wrapped firm about his wrists and the remainder of his clothes were stripped from his thighs and legs. The oil was cold at first and made them both yelp and twitch, warming under Sam's hands into moans on the hard arousal built between them and their long, searing kisses. Clothes and buttons and braces became lost in the straw as Sam lifted him, tied him and readied him with careful fingers and a warm gripping fist--swirling, delving sensations that Frodo never knew he'd respond to so fiercely, begging him in. They both made enough unholy noise at their joining to scare the rest of the brooding birds from their nests in a cast of feathers as the old ironworks creaked under their undulating bodies.

Frodo squirmed and moaned, pleading with Sam to not let go, not let go, until he could feel the rising surge in his groin, coupled with the hot deep melding of their audible smacking flesh. Sam could not bear it long, thrust so deep in his tight warmth, and would pull back, gasping, just long enough to relax and suckle Frodo deep in his mouth to the edge of release, only to return to him, deep and slow, rebuilding thrust by thrust until a final shattering climax took them both under, spilling over, collapsing and breaking the frayed rope, dropping them both off the plough and into the sheltering straw, voiceless and trembling, holding each other in a sweet exhaustion.

***

Frodo had woken with Sam lying heavy on his chest and straw in his mouth. He spit it out and blinked into the near-darkness of the barn. The moon was up. It was some hours after nightfall.

Frodo cursed and pushed himself to his knees, startling Sam into a shared panic of straw-stuck curls and sticky thighs and bellies.

"What happened? What time is it?"

"I don't know," Frodo said, already on the edge of upset. It was late--he knew that. 

They dressed hurriedly and brushed one another off as best they could, but the slippery evidence of their new discovery was hard to wipe away. They dressed and ran in a frightened rush to the barn gate where Frodo grabbed Sam by the arm. 

"Wait, Sam. Wait!"

Sam stopped, his panicked eyes white in the moonlight. "What?"

"Whatever happens, I love you, Sam. Please, remember this."

Sam grasped his hand and squeezed it tightly. "I have to go!" he said and was off into the darkness, running for the party grove.

Frodo took a longer route home by way of the flow of the stream so he could undress and wash himself more carefully. But the scent of their love was hard to rub away in the cold flow of the stream and he had to settle for at least picking the last of the straw from his trousers and hair.

He crossed the fields to the backside of Bag End just as the moon reached the height of the trees behind him. Through the windows Frodo could see Bilbo had lit a fire in the parlour and at the back door, the Gaffer had hung his bag-like cap.

No! No, no, no.

Frodo froze on the garden path, not wanting to face this. Not wanting to believe that he had been so thoughtlessly foolish once again. He cursed the Gaffer and Bilbo for bringing them to this.But mostly he chastised himself for having lost all shred of any measure of control and propriety that had once come so easily to him. Where was the lad who had grown up under the cane of Buckland's moral standard? What had taken him from a well-respected heir to an oil-slicked libertine tied to a cow-stay?

Whatever was waiting for him inside that lit doorway was only what he had brought upon himself. So Frodo gathered himself, stilled his shaking hands, and opened the door and went in.

Bilbo and the Gaffer were having tea at the kitchen table. 

"Evening, Uncle, Gaffer," Frodo said as he tried to pass through nonchalantly.

Bilbo set his teacup down and folded his hands as he turned to him. "Where is Samwise, Frodo?"

"Sam?" Frodo said innocently. "I have not seen him."

Bilbo slammed his palm down upon the table, rattling the serving ware and scaring Frodo half to death. "Frodo_ Baggins_, do not lie to me!"

Frodo gasped, trying to regain his breath. He'd never known Bilbo to use such a tone with him before. "What? What do you want me to say?"

"Samwise, Frodo. Where is he?"

Frodo raised his trembling chin and crossed his arms over his chest, staring them both down. If he could not hide his doings, he would defend them. "He is home now, I imagine."

Bilbo sucked his teeth and looked to the Gaffer who got slowly to his feet. He tipped his greyed head to Frodo grimly and saw himself out the back door. Something in their brief exchange scared Frodo to the marrow. "Bilbo? What's going on?"

Bilbo did not answer. Instead, he got up, brushed his trousers and began to clear the dishes to be washed--as he always did. 

Frodo made his way around the table, following him. "Uncle? What is the Gaffer going to do to Sam? Bilbo? What is he going to do? Because this is _my_ fault, not his!"

Bilbo said nothing, but set the teacups in the basin with a delicate tink. He rolled up each sleeve one by one carefully, yet just as he prepared to dip his hands into the water to begin washing, he spoke. "You break my heart, Frodo."

Frodo backed away from him, too scared and furious and heart-broken to think clearly. He was crying already, and he slapped the wetness angrily from his face. 

Frodo ran from the kitchen and into his bedroom. He bolted the door and threw open his wardrobe and began clawing through his shirts and trousers, flinging them aside until he found the books hidden in the back. He grabbed them up, one after the other, and took them over to his bedchamber's fireplace, throwing them onto the grate--green, red, blue--bindings falling open and pages crumpling. He tossed tinder and faggots upon them and reached for a candle Bilbo had left lit for him in his window, a beacon to call him home.

Frodo held the burning candle in his hand upon its side, long burnt down and ribboned with wax that dripped painfully on his fingers. He held it tightly and brought it out at arm's length over the hearth. Not quite as long a fall as from the bookshelf, but long enough to let fate decide the outcome. The wax smoked and curled into the air as Frodo let the candle drop.

***

Bilbo did not rap upon his door, not that evening nor the long day that followed. He'd gone out, taken his cloak and walking stick. Frodo did not know where, nor did he care. He sat in his room, staring at the hearth and thinking and feeling nothing--his mind and heart one great void, as quiet and empty as the breeze blowing lonely through Bag End's silent gardens.

Twilight came and Frodo had not moved from his bedroom. He still wore the clothes from the day before. He had not bathed and the scent of Sam was on him, hidden like a scar within the folds of his clothes. He got up, unbolted his door and went out for some time, wandering, running his hands along the tips of the grasses that grew wild between the many smials occupying the Hill below Bag End. In the distance he could see the lights coming on in the windows, hear the laughter of the children and the barking of the dogs and squealing of the pigs as families came home from a hard day in the fields to hug and kiss one another and give thanks for the meal of pottage and greens that graced their tables. Frodo stood alone in the grass between them and listened to every sound.

***

It was dark when Frodo came back home. Bilbo had returned who-knew-when and had lit the rooms up with light. The remains of a hearty pot of stew were bubbling on the hook as Frodo came in the back door. He wandered down the smial until he found Bilbo sitting at his writing desk, pouring over some papers. Frodo came in, tired and numb, and sat down in front of the fire at his feet. He was ready to talk.

"Frodo-lad, look to me now," Bilbo said gently, upon hearing his entrance. 

Frodo raised his head but he could not bring himself to look directly at Bilbo--his disappointment in him.

"My translations, Frodo. Why did you burn them?"

_Because you would not speak to me of them,_ Frodo thought, but answered, "I don't know. I'm sorry, Uncle."

"You did not create them, Frodo. They were not yours to destroy. I have trusted you with everything I have, everything you will have. Why did you choose to betray me this way?"

Frodo felt hot tears threatening. It had been so simple to let the candle drop. This was harder, so much harder. "Why did you let me read them?" he asked, bitterly.

Bilbo sighed and swivelled his chair around to face him, folding his hands in his well-pressed lap. "Because, Frodo, I felt you were wise enough to understand them, unlike most hobbits I have known. And, because they were meant to be read, by someone other than myself."

Frodo paused at this. He hadn't known he was the first to open the box. "You shouldn't have trusted me with them," Frodo said thickly. "I was not wise at all. I did not know they would wound me so. Why didn't you warn me?"

Bilbo shook his head, his eyes filled with sympathy. "At first I only wanted to keep you from ruining the delicate lock with your amateurish burglary skills. Frodo, did you not find the key I left for you?"

Frodo was baffled. "No?"

Bilbo waved a hand at him. "It was down under the side drawer of myoh, never mind. Blast. I thought it better to leave it unlocked for you as I should have done in the first place. I should have left them out upon my shelves all these years, told people about them, let them read and judge me as they wished. But never mind, those days have long since passed and you're all I have to concern me now."

"Why did you hide them?" Frodo asked. "If not from me?"

Bilbo chewed his lip and studied his hands. "I've not been well understood all my long years. I thought by hiding them I mightkeep you from doubting me, keep you safe from what others have thought of me and my life." He chuckled then and fiddled about in his pocket for his ring, which he took into his palm, his hand growing into a fist about it, like a cyst covers a hidden wound. "Mad Baggins, they call me, and will call me when I'm gone. I would not have them say the same of you," he said and looked Frodo solidly in the eye. "The translation wounded you, you say. Is this what began all your troubles with Samwise? Be honest now, lad."

"Yes, Uncle."

He nodded. "I feared so. But it was not the first time you'd felt such impulses."

"No." Frodo admitted and found it such a relief to say so. "The books legitimised it."

"And romanticised it, I'd imagine," Bilbo continued.

"Yes." Frodo said, looking down again as if by reading them he had become some damn idiot fool, drunken and singing for his sweetheart upon the tables.

"Then it was good you found them. Though I fear my well-placed bookmark fell a yard shy of hitting its mark."

Frodo was confused again. "The bookmark?"

"When I released the lock I also reset the bookmark in the blue book. Did you not notice?"

"I noticed," Frodo acknowledged. "I did not understand it."

Bilbo sat back and let the ring slip from his hand and settle into the belly of his waistcoat pocket. He crossed his arms and worked his tongue about the inside of his mouth and began to recite from rote:

Tween lands of heartless night we've run

Across the fell mountains and wicked seas

Yea, in this wilderness of fate and fortune's game

I see the warnings written within the singing winds

Tis not our world to bend or sow nor call to comfort's need

Our hearts are not sworn to King or law but our memory shall ever be

"Do you understand this now, Frodo?"

Frodo sat silent and pondered the words. They had not meant much to him then, and it stung him deeply to realise their wisdom was now blown all to ash. Real tears ran down his face now as he spoke. "What can I ever do to mend things? How can I keep whom I love, yet protect him from me?"

"You must heed the warnings and obey the laws, Frodo. Or else your love for Samwise will wind up much like mine did, locked away in a silver box."

Frodo rose and knelt before his uncle, setting his hands upon his knees. "Please, Uncle. Please don't let the Gaffer take Sam away. Please. I'll do anything." Though even as he said this, he knew he had spoken these promises before and just as easily broken them.

Bilbo covered Frodo's hands with his own, dry and aged. "Hamfast is a good man, Frodo. I know you cannot see this now, but he has every best intention for his youngest son. He will not have him shamed, not even by you, though he loves you well."

"But, my intentions _are_ good. I would never betray Sam, not in a hundred years."

"I don't doubt that, lad. But that is not the way of things in this land we call our home and Shire. Sam is an apprentice. Your affair endangers his chances of winning a post."

"But surely you mean to appoint him, Bilbo! The Gaffer does less than half the work now, I'd thought"

"Of course Samwise is capable, there's no doubt in my mind. But you know the ways of serfs and lords, Frodo. Sam is young; he cannot accept official post for some years yet. And then, only when Hamfast relinquishes his own can he take his father's place. I will not dishonour him, Frodo, by letting him go merely to allow you to indulge your desires for his son. No, the appointing of Bag End's succeeding gardener I will leave to you."

"What do you mean? Where are you going?"

Bilbo squeezed Frodo's hands within his own and looked upon them sadly. "You've known for sometime that I intend to leave, go back among the elves."

Frodo felt his heart skip painfully, but he held his tongue.

"Perhaps you thought I would take you as well. But I must be clear to you, Frodo; I mean to go alone."

"Why?"

"In three years time you will come of age. On September 22 of that year, you will inherit everything I own and all my servants will be released, by law. It is already written and witnessed. At that day and time, you may, Frodo, appoint any servant as you wish and can afford to keep. Sam will be fully apprenticed and ready for service should you choose to call him."

Frodo was momentarily confounded by this news and heartbroken as well. He had thought Bilbo would take him with him. "I will stay and be master of Bag End," he repeated soberly. "For how long?"

"For as long as are the years of your life, or until the long road calls you. And I do believe it will call you one day. You are, after all, a Baggins. But on that day if your love is as true as I believe you say it is, Sam will be at your side."

"Sam can be mine, by law," Frodo said, only now following Bilbo's train of reasoning to its point. "And no one can take him from me, not even his father?"

"No, certainly not. Not if he accepts willingly and if he is not called to another master before. And Frodo beware this, because if you cannot restrain yourself, you will force Hamfast's hand and Sam will be a roper in Northfarthing til the end of his days."

"But Sam is a gardener and a fine cook as well. He would wither in that life!"

"Ah, yes, then it is up to you to see that he does not wither thus. In his heart Hamfast wants Samwise to take on Bag End. It is his design to keep his favourite son close to home, though he knew long before now that he would lose him one day to you."

"And he would have no right to protest should Sam come live with me?"

"No, he would not. In fact, my lad, he would honour it. Don't look so surprised. All Ham wants is his son respectably bestowed. What happens within the walls of this smial are not his concern, provided it is fitting to the letter of the laws of the land. A master's wish is by all rights in this country, the very law itself. But you, Frodo, are not yet that master."

Frodo sat back upon his heels; all this coming to him at once was hard to settle in his mind. "Three years" he murmured. "Is a very long time."

"You are young, Frodo. I will not lie to you; it will seem very long, indeed. But it will be longer if you do not abide it."

Frodo sat back and drew up his knees. He rested his chin and stared into the burning grate for a long time, so long he thought Bilbo might have nodded off for as quiet as he had become. He found he had one more question to ask: "Was the story true, Bilbo?"

"What does your heart tell you?"

Frodo thought it over and realised he knew all along that truth or fiction mattered little in the ways of love. "I am very sorry I burned the books," he said at length. "There was much more I could have learned from them."

Bilbo got up and patted his shoulder. "There is much more you will learn, but not from books, and for that I believe they've served their purpose. Keep the box if you like. I'll have no more use for it." And with that he yawned and excused himself for bed, leaving Frodo to watch the fire sputter and die out.


	5. V: Answer

V: Answer

Bilbo had vanished into the night, walking stick, cloak and all--save a little gold ring and the papers to Bag End and all its secrets. Frodo knew Bilbo was following his heart, seeking the company of elves again and perhaps in a few weeks' time he would be well ensconced in the Rivendell library, dusting off tomes and blowing cobwebs from scrolls. Frodo missed him with a joyous sense of loss, knowing that nothing Bilbo ever did was without great love for him. The fire was dying; the whipping wind still stoked the smouldering logs while the oak's boughs rocked overhead. The garden gate was still latched and Frodo was nearly out of memories.

Earlier that evening, Frodo had slipped away from Merry's departing bustle just long enough to unhinge the bookcase panel in what would now be his study. He reached in and withdrew the silver box. Still tarnished and covered with fingerprints, Frodo pulled the small silver key Bilbo had given him from his pocket and unlocked it. The letter lay within, written long ago after many lengthy versions, now pared down to a single page: Sam's call to service. Merry had been a dear to deliver it, though no doubt he could not feel its weight in the waiting as he tucked it into his coat and set off. Had his cousin rung the bell, or was he mindful of his need to gain the East Road and had merely slipped it unannounced into the box by the door? Perhaps it would not be found until dawn when Sam rose to bring in the milk and start breakfast. 

If Sam had yet to read the letter's contents, Frodo could not know. Just as he could not know if Sam still felt the same ever-present longing that rose in him whenever they met in the garden for a warm greeting and kind word before respectfully parting to attend their sundry duties. It had been so painful to see the hurt in Sam's eyes at first, when Frodo changed so suddenly. He knew Sam didn't understand why he took careful steps whenever they were alone together, or why he insisted that Sam keep to the garden and not worry so about his person--insisting that it would be better if he opened his own doors and put on his own coat. Frodo needed to believe that the slow silent resolution that came over Sam those first hard months was forged through understanding and not defeat.

Even so, there were fleeting moments when Frodo knew his eyes must have betrayed him. When, after their morning hellos, he would turn to glance back at Sam bent over the tumbled earth to catch him gazing back. They would connect for a brief breathless moment, before they knew they must lower their heads and not look too long upon what they could not hold or touch. 

Frodo relearned patience and mastery of a love, which, for him, had only grown with the passing years. Sam had not been sent away and Frodo made peace with the knowledge that Sam's devotion was something to be earned, not had. He left the torrid swings of passion behind and strove to make charity and compassion his chief concerns. He went among his fellow hobbits, took meals with them, toasted ales, and listened through the clipped syllables and silliness for the wisdom spoken therein, brought up through the ancient roots of the land. He came to understand these country folk as he had been taught to understand the rules of the society that had raised him. In three years he felt he'd found a way in which he could serve both standards well. 

But this last night of long waiting was the hardest to endure. For all his composure, Frodo wanted an end to it. He needed to know if all the care he had taken to earn his place as Bag End's master would come to fruition. Sam had been his guidepost on a difficult journey across the Brandywine that had not ended with his arrival at Bag End's gate, a stranger in a simple land. He hoped Sam would once more be the foundation upon which to build his mastership of the Hill; he had counted on it. 

A knock came to the door. Quick and loud. 

Frodo was on his feet and across the parlour to the hall before he remembered to breathe. He grasped and turned the large brass knob. The round green door groaned and opened.

Sam stood on the stoop, his hard breath leaving trails in the pre-dawn air. His hair was uncombed and his coat was on inside-out. A lopsided bag stood at his side, stuffed hastily with what appeared to be everything he owned in the world. The letter was in his hand, open and flapping in the breeze. 

"You needn't have used such fancy words, sir. I'd a-come if you'd hollered out the back window. I accept! I accept!"

"Sam?" Frodo asked, as if in a dream. "Can you forgive me?"

Sam sorrowed at this. "For what?"

"For asking so much"

Sam smiled, a slow grin that grew and lit his face. "There ain't no part of me that's ever not belonged to you. I've lived but a few holes away all my life, but this door and garden has always been my home."

Happiness flowed in an unfettered stream through Frodo. He was for a moment struck speechless. Sam was here. Sam had come to him. They would belong to each other now. "Welcome home, dearest Sam," he said at last and moved back to open the door wide.

Sam took the final step and tossed his bag aside on the tiles. He took Frodo up his arms and held him tight for a long long time. 

Frodo closed his eyes and lay his cheek against the rough turned-out wool of Sam's old coat, knowing nothing but the feel of Sam's breath in his chest, moving with his own. In his heart there was peace, and in his mind, a silence so pure and restful he forgot every step of the long road they had taken together to meet on this threshold. "I should close the door," he murmured, not wanting to move.

Sam raised his head and took Frodo's face in his hands, looking deep into his eyes with a light that had never ceased to kindle even in a great fall. He shook his head. "Let them see," he said, and kissed Frodo soundly as dawn broke over the sleeping hills of Hobbiton below.

~~~

**Special thanks to: **Cara Loup, Michelle, Elderberry Wine, Chica Chubb, Ghyste & Winter for providing me with guidance and beta-eyes through various versions of this piece. Take a bow, ladies!


End file.
